The Silver Witch (34 page)

‘No, he does not seek to catch you, he runs
with
you. See? He shows no teeth, and his eye looks back, not forward. He is your protector.'

‘So much gold. You could feed an army for the price of this.'

‘My daughter is a princess. She should be adorned as such.' He takes it from me and kneels in front of Tanwen. He lets her touch the torc, shows her the pictures, talks softly to her, making gentle, cooing noises. He lifts the golden ring and fits it into place with such care and delicacy that our babe does not protest. She puts her fingers to it, exploring the smoothness of the precious metal, picking out the carved lines upon it. But she has a young mind, and her attention is caught by a caterpillar crawling near her foot, so that she forgets what she is wearing, and hastens to catch the little creature instead. Brynach sits back on his heels, gazing at her. ‘I know she is a child of the moonlight,' he says, the sadness catching in his voice. ‘I understand she must live as you do, making friends of shadows and shade, happiest and safest in the soft hours of cool darkness. I know this.' He turns to me. ‘But I live my life by day, Seren. And though she is in your image, she has my blood.' He nods at the golden necklace. ‘Now I know she will forever have a drop of sunshine with her, however deep the night. Forever.'

 

18

TILDA

By the time Dylan drives Tilda home a sudden thaw has begun, so that the Landrover swishes and slithers through slush. The cottage is dark, but the fire in the kitchen stove has kept in well, so that the house feels welcoming and warm. Even so, Dylan suggests they would be warmer in bed.

Upstairs Tilda is embarrassed to find she is nervous. Their first lovemaking had been spontaneous, without time for awkwardness. Somehow the whole business of undressing and getting into bed together is painfully intimate. She has become so used to wearing her thermals at night and having Thistle curl up on her feet. She is unsure how to behave.

Long Johns and a hairy lurcher could be passion killers. Or should he just see the real me? Whatever that is.

Picking up on her nerves, Dylan takes her hand in his. They stand beside the bed. She is in her T-shirt and underwear. He has stripped to his jeans, his body gleaming in the faltering light of the candle that burns on the bedside table. He gently unclips her silver hairpin and puts it on the bedside locker before running his fingers through her loose hair, following the irregular waves it has gained from being pinned up. ‘It's been a special day,' he tells her. ‘Spending Christmas with you…'

‘The food was great,' she says, aware she is talking to fill any possible silences. ‘And your uncle is so sweet. He's been such a help.'

‘You saved us from a sad bachelor Christmas.'

‘Thank you for the clock, what you did. Thank you for … everything. Putting up with all the weird stuff. Listening to me going on and on about ghosts and witches and heaven knows what…'

‘Hey, I want to spend time with you, Tilda. I want to be with you.' He pushes her hair back off her face. ‘But I know things have been tough for you. I don't want you to feel … pressured.'

‘I don't. Oh, look, let's just get into bed, shall we? It's bloody freezing up here.'

Laughing, they dive beneath the duvet, holding each other close. Thistle comes to the side of the bed, sniffs, and turns away grumpily.

‘Oh dear,' says Dylan, ‘she's really going to hate me now.'

‘She's gone back to the kitchen. It's warmer in there. She'll be fine.'

‘And what about you?' he asks. ‘Are you fine?'

She hesitates. At this moment, his arms enfolding her, safe and snug, still comforted by the kindness of the professor, Dylan's continuing help with all the frightening things that have been happening, her body well fed, the fading effects of the wine still taking the edge off her worry, she does indeed feel fine. Her answer is a slow, sensuous kiss.

‘I'll take that as a “yes”,' he murmurs. He pulls back to look at her in the low light. ‘I know it's rude to stare,' he teases, ‘but I can't stop looking at you. You are … fascinating. So beautiful. You look delicate, fragile, but you're one of the strongest people I've ever met.'

‘It's a common misconception,' she tells him, trying not to sound like some sort of information broadcast. ‘People with albinism are often seen as frail. It's one of the things other people find scary about us. About me. They are afraid I'll break.'

‘But you won't. You can run farther and faster than just about anyone I know. And I've seen you wield a pick axe and a lump hammer.'

‘I do have to stay out of the sun. A summer's day can make me blister, though there are some pretty good sunblocks out there now. It must have been difficult in years gone by. Imagine what it would have been like all those centuries ago.'

‘You think the woman in the boat had the same condition as you?'

‘Whoever I saw when I put on the bracelet—the torc—she showed every indication of having albinism.'

‘It must have been hard. I mean, nobody would have understood. She would have been singled out for being so different, surely.'

‘It's odd, but that would have been less problematic than it is now. It's a modern reaction, stigmatizing people who don't fit the general idea of what we should all look like. There's evidence that through the ages people who stood out were often thought of as being of special importance. Something
more
rather than something
less.
' She pauses to consider this for a moment and then goes on. ‘If Seren Arianaidd was like me, and if your uncle's right and she was the local shaman, she would have been revered and respected. No, for her the hardest part of having this condition would have been protecting herself from the sun. She may have had problems with her eyesight too, but not all of us do.'

‘You don't need your lenses anymore. Your eyes have got better, since you moved here.'

‘Yes. They have.' She snuggles closer to him. ‘You have no idea how wonderful it feels not to be hiding behind them anymore.'

A thought occurs to Dylan. ‘Uncle Illtyd says the torc was made for a child. If it has all those witchy symbols on it, and it has such an amazing effect on you when you wear it, it makes sense to think it belonged to the woman you saw, if she was a shaman and possibly a witch. So…'

‘So she must have had a child. So, did either of them survive the attack on the crannog?'

He kisses Tilda's brow, her face, her throat. ‘Because if they did,' he whispers, ‘then maybe, just maybe, Seren also had grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.' He kisses her collarbone, slipping off her shoulder straps, moving lower, ‘and so on, down, down, down through the ages, generation after generation, until we get to…' He looks up at her, smiling.

Tilda smiles back. ‘Me. Until we get to me.'

SEREN

Tanwen plays happily with the flowers outside our little home. There is such joy to be found in watching an inquisitive young mind snatching at everything life offers. Her fascination with the petals of a buttercup, her wonder at the wings of a butterfly, her fury at the sting of a nettle—with each new experience she grows. Already I can see the light of magic in her eyes. She was blessed by the Afanc and she is my daughter, but more than this, she has the gift in her own soul. I will nurture it as I cherish her, and one day she will be my worthy successor.

She hears, no,
senses
someone approach. I follow the turn of her head and soon spy Nesta tramping into view. I am quick to attribute my child's sharpness to her singular blood, but in truth, a cloth-eared drunkard at the bottom of a barrel could hear the princess's maid stumbling along the path. She is carrying a wicker basket holding something heavy within. The day is falling into dusk, but still I can make out an uncharacteristic smile upon her plump face.

‘Good day to you, Seren Arianaidd,' she calls. ‘And to you, little one. How pretty she is grown.'

I raise my brows. This attempt at cordial behavior toward me—toward us—is as easy to see through as a glassful of lake water. When I do not return her greeting, however, she does not let slip her mask of friendliness. ‘Forgive me for not calling upon you these long months past, Prophet. My mistress likes me ever at her side.'

‘And she did not wish to visit?' The mockery in my question is a challenge, but one she is clearly prepared for.'

‘On this occasion,' she says, lowering her voice a little, ‘I act of my own accord. My mistress knows not of my wish to speak with you. I have slipped away unnoticed.'

This I find hard to believe, but I will play the game and see what it is she wants of me. For Nesta does nothing that does not forward the cause of Nesta, however indirectly.

‘Won't you sit?' I gesture at the blanket upon the ground. It is too warm for a fire yet, but there are cushions and it is a pleasant spot to rest. With some huffing and puffing, she lowers herself onto the red and green wool. She smiles at Tanwen, who stares back for a moment, decides the woman is of no interest and goes back to her flowers.

I sit opposite Nesta. ‘You are not given to visits without purpose,' I point out. ‘What is it you want of me?'

‘Oh, nothing,' she protests. ‘That is, nothing for myself. As I have said, I come here without my lady's knowing, but it is for her benefit I come. And for yours too, I believe.' She pauses to order her thoughts, or possibly recall a speech committed to memory, and then continues. ‘My mistress does not, for reasons you will understand, feel she can come to you herself. That does not mean, however, that you are not in her thoughts.'

‘I am certain she has an opinion of me. I'm not certain I need telling of it.'

‘Yours is, after all, a … prickly situation.'

This makes me laugh aloud, causing Tanwen to look up and smile, and making our visitor scowl. ‘You have many skills, Nesta, I will allow that. But diplomacy is not one of them. It may be the princess should have sent her brother to pour syrupy words in my ear.'

‘I tell you, the princess does not know I have sought you out.' This time her voice has her more customary sourness in it. Her patience is already wearing thin. ‘I have come because I want only what is best for my princess. And I come to speak to you as one witch to another.'

Now it is my turn to frown. ‘Witch I may be, and you have a skill with potions and poultices, but do not confuse your talents with my gift, maid-of-the-princess. I would not lower myself to whisper the dark words you call magic. It is a base and dangerous art. You and I are not equals, nor will we ever be.'

Nesta squirms upon her ample backside, her fierce dislike of me doing its best to claw its way to the surface, while some pressing need for her to remain pleasant pushes it back down.

‘Forgive me,' she simpers, ‘My eagerness to win you to my cause is making me clumsy.' She hesitates and watches Tanwen for a moment. ‘She is so very like you,' she says, ‘and yet, there is something of her father about her also. It is there for all to see,' she adds, turning her piggy eyes back on me to make the point.

‘Her parentage is no secret,' I say.

‘Indeed it is not. And my mistress has accepted this fact.'

‘Has she a choice?'

‘She has … allowed things to be as they are.'

‘How could she do otherwise?'

‘She could put more obstacles between you and her husband. See that he visits you less frequently. Find further ways to hinder him coming to your door.'

‘
More
obstacles?
Further
ways? You give the truth an airing with every word you utter, despite your attempts to the contrary. The princess tolerates Prince Brynach's love for me and his desire to be with his daughter because there is no alternative available to her.'

‘She endures the situation with dignity, as befits a princess!'

‘Should I be grateful for it?'

‘Do you steal another woman's husband with such an easy conscience?'

‘Prince Brynach is not anyone's possession that he might be stolen. He bestows his affection where he chooses. He spends time with his child, as any loving father would.'

‘And any loving mother would want the best for their daughter, certainly.'

‘Of course. I am no different from any parent in this.'

‘And yet, perhaps you do not see how you stand in the way of your child's possible betterment. Of her birthright.'

Now we are come to it. There is weight behind these words, and Nesta sees that I have felt it.

‘I have at the heart of my every waking moment a fervent wish for all that is good for my daughter. I am ever striving to see her well fed, well clothed, well loved. She wants for nothing, and she learns what she needs to learn.'

‘It is true you equip her to be a shaman. A witch. To live apart as you do. To follow the path of your life, and yet…'

‘And yet? Spit out what it is you came to say, Nesta Meredith, before it sticks in your throat and chokes you.'

‘There is a way you can do what is most generous for all concerned in this matter. A way you can make an easier life for the prince. A happier life for the princess. A royal life for your precious child.'

She waits while I sift through the grit of what she is telling me. Of what she is suggesting. My mouth dries at the thought of it. My heart pounds. I pray my face does not betray my anger. My fear.

‘You have come here, to my home, to tell me I should give up my child? Give her up to Wenna?!'

‘Think of it. Do not let your heart rule you, but only think of it. Your daughter has royal blood in her veins. She is of Brynach's line. You and I both know Princess Wenna will never give him an heir. He adores the child. She is his
princess
. And my mistress is not as cold as you would have her be. Her longing for a child is only in part to secure her position. She is a woman, and she craves a babe to hold in her arms, to mother. She would take her husband's child into her home, she would raise her as her own, even as she is…'