The Winter Witch (26 page)

Later, after a tasty supper shared with the other drovers, I retire to my room once more and take to my bed. It feels even more comfortable than I could have anticipated, and I imagine I will be asleep within moments. But though my body is weary my mind and my spirit are restless. It does not feel right to be in here, separated from the ponies. Separated from my husband. I want to go outside, take my blanket and put it on the ground beside him, so that we may sleep side by side, listening to the rhythmic munching of the little horses as they crop the grass, but I cannot. To do so would seem so … forward, somehow. I know this to be ridiculous, and yet I do not know how to go about changing the situation. Now my mattress has become rocky as a riverbed. I turn this way and that, but can no longer find comfort. At last I decide that I will not rest unless I gain some air. I slip my coat around my shoulders, pad on silent bare feet down the stairs and, unseen, out of the back door.

Outside, it is a perfect night. There are no clouds, so that the stars glow like sparks from God’s own campfire, flaring and fading as they are apt to do. The air is close and full of the scents of evening; the pulsing bodies of the beasts, the smoke from the dwindling fire, the spent tobacco in the still-warm bowls of clay pipes, the fragrant needles of the pine trees. The night is so still tiny sounds are able to make themselves heard. I notice not only the hooting of a solitary owl but the rustling of its wing feathers as it swoops from a high branch. I make my way to the ponies and move among them. As always, they are comfortable in my presence. They consider me friend. There is great solace to be found in the company of creatures when they are at rest. Their acceptance of me makes me feel at ease with myself.

I see Cai sleeping beneath the tree nearest the boundary wall. He has his head against his saddle and a rough blanket draped over him. His hat might have started the night tipped to shade his face but has fallen to the ground. He looks so very …
gentle,
in repose, and wears the cares of life lightly on his sleeping features. I step closer, drawn to him, wishing I could lie with him, snug against his back, so that we were both lulled to sleep by the muted noises of the night.

A sudden coldness makes me start. I turn and find Angel has come to stand behind me. He is neither grazing nor dozing, but looking at me, and I know he sees me in a way that is different from the other horses and ponies. He is Isolda’s favored mount, after all. I should not be surprised that there is something of her about him; a fraction of her own presence, even. A shadow moves out from beside him, a darkness not created by the blocking of the bright moonbeams falling this night. The shadow shifts, takes shape, and emerges. Isolda!

“You should not be so shocked to see me, Morgana,” says she, her voice a low, hissing, whisper, such as a snake might use to transfix its prey. “Did you really believe I would allow you two to travel together without me? I told you, by the time this drove is at an end Cai will want rid of you. You will no longer be welcome in Tregaron, nor at Ffynnon Las.”

I fight to keep my mind empty. I will not have this woman violate my thoughts. I confess I am astounded at the distance she is able to witchwalk. Will we never be beyond her reach?

“No, Morgana, you cannot step beyond the limit of my powers.” She smiles as she speaks and it is as chilling and frightening a smile as any I have witnessed. She leaves off making a fuss of her horse and steps closer to Cai. I fear for him and hurry to put myself between them. She laughs mirthlessly. “Your willingness to place yourself in the way of danger to protect him is touching. Touching, and stupid. Do you think there is anything you could do to stop me if I chose to turn my strength against him? You may be a witch, but you have little control over your abilities. Scant expertise in the way of directing them. Why, you have spent your entire life denying you are what you are, even to yourself, it seems.”

I put my hands on my hips, feet firmly planted. Let her bluster and goad. I will not be scared away by her threats. It may be that she is right, that I am useless against her. But I will make a stand.

“How feverishly that callow mind of yours works, Morgana. There is no need for you to trouble yourself to make sense of what you cannot possibly understand. You have led a simple life; you see things in simple terms. What can you know of me and my kind?” She walks past me, and I know there is nothing I can do to stop her. She bends over Cai, gazing down at him. I want to drag her away, to claw at her, to pick up a stout stick and beat her with it. But it is only her phantom stands before me. How can I do anything to influence it? A pain grips my heart as I watch her plant a kiss on my husband’s brow. He murmurs in his sleep but does not wake.

Isolda considers me, her head on one side, eyebrows raised.

“I almost pity you,” she tells me. “I suppose you are not to blame for the position in which you find yourself. However, it is still your choice to stay. My patience is nearing an end, witch-girl. If you do not leave of your own accord, I will have rid of you, by any means necessary.”

The sound of the words is still hanging in the air but her shape has vanished. Angel goes back to his grazing. Somewhere a dog fox barks. From behind the wall comes the purring of Dai the Forge’s snore. Isolda has gone, and it is as if she has never been, save for the dread she has placed deep inside me.

12.

Cai opens his eyes to a glorious dawn breaking over the distant Beacons at Brecon. The sky is hill-fire orange with slashes of scarlet fading to the yellow of candle flame at its uppermost reaches. Skylarks trill and whirr. A family of crows add their raucous argument to the sweeter sounds of marsh tits and robins. He lies still for a moment, letting the sky and the birdsong bring him slowly to his senses. He does not recall a dream, only a sense that his night was disturbed somehow. Whether by memories or something outside himself he cannot be sure. He looks for the familiar ache of loneliness within but, strangely, does not find it. He acknowledges a change in himself, a significant shift in what moves him. Time was, for a long time, his waking moments were filled with longing for Catrin, and his arms ached to hold her once more. Slowly that grief melded with loneliness into a dull pain of emptiness, a yearning for someone to make him complete again. Now such vague wishes have altered to be highly specific. Now it is Morgana he longs for, Morgana for whom his arms ache, Morgana’s name on his lips when he wakes, troubled and full of desire in the slow, hot hours of the night.

He sits up, rolling his stiff shoulders in an attempt to shrug them into suppleness. The mountain ground is a hard bed, and already he is aware of pains and discomforts that will only be added to in the weeks to come. Standing up he brushes down his clothes and puts on his hat. There will not be the luxury of a wash today. He thinks of Morgana in her cool, quiet room and pictures her, for a vivid moment, standing before the washbowl, pouring water over her slender body. He feels shameful at such a thought, and then, at once, cross. She is his wife, after all. As if he has summoned her up he finds her standing in front of him, though he never heard her footsteps. Bracken wakes up to greet her, too, wagging his tail and snuffling at her feet.

“Ah. Good morning, Morgana. Did you sleep well?”

She gives a gesture which suggests she did not.

“Well, a strange bed … perhaps you would have preferred the lullaby of the foxes and owls out here.” He says it as a joke but, seeing her face, realizes that, of course she would rather have been outside. When has he known her ever to choose to be indoors? He shakes his head at his own shortsightedness, silently cursing himself for missing the opportunity to share the night with her, however publicly. However hard the bed.

It takes far longer than it ought for the livestock to be mustered and the drovers and followers to be assembled. Cai is irritated by how slow everyone is, and how disorganized. Even Bracken is bad tempered and gets into a scrap with one of Watson’s collies, leaving him with a bleeding ear.

Cai knows they cannot spend their mornings like this, in such disarray. He must make certain of an earlier start tomorrow, he decides. And then he remembers tomorrow is to be a rest day. It is early in the journey to call a temporary halt, and he knows to do so will raise some eyebrows. He is resolved to stick to his reasoning—the stock are unused to travel, he will say, let them have a day to recover from hauling themselves over the mountains. Better to keep the condition on them than to rush. It is flimsy logic, and he knows it, but it will be worth it. They will camp for an extra day and night outside Crickhowell so that Morgana might visit her mother and spend time with her. He has promised her this, and he will be true to his word. He knows how much it will mean to her.

Having scaled the Epynt the previous day, the journey to Brecon is comparatively easy. The general downhill gradient helps the animals overcome their reluctance to press their aching limbs into action. In Brecon they pass the Drover’s Arms where Cai and Morgana spent their wedding night. It shocks Cai to realize how many nights have passed since and still he has not taken Morgana to his bed. Suddenly he feels stupidly slow, like some tongue-tied teenager. And now they are on the drove, and he knows the opportunity to do anything to cross the distance that remains between him and his wife may not present itself for weeks. He twists in his saddle, seeking her out among the moving mass behind him. The wide street of the town narrows over the bridge to cross the Usk and he can pick her out, urging Prince between the mares and the sheep, nudging them along to keep up with the cattle. She appears so at ease on the little horse; completely confident, her signals to her mount barely perceptible to the onlooker. The pony goes well for her. Cai is saddened at the thought that he must be sold when they reach London. Morgana will take the parting hard.

People have come out to watch the procession. Children run alongside Angel, admiring the fine horse, a little in awe of the
porthmon
riding at the front of the drove, his hat brim shading his eyes, his curious calls summoning the herd behind him. The beasts set up a bellowing as the buildings grow taller and the number of spectators around them increases. One of the younger foals panics and darts down a side street, leaving its mother to whinny frantically. Cai sees Morgana and Prince fly after it, cutting it off before it can become lost or hurt, gently directing it back to the herd. Watson’s sheep provide the most noise, bleating like some discordant choir, a senseless, tuneless racket that serves only to wear the nerves and strain the voices of those who must control them. The two sheepdogs work swiftly, one becoming sufficiently agitated to nip at the nose of a sluggish ewe, drawing blood. Watson emits a stream of curses at the dog, which slinks away to the far side of the flock, tail down. The heat of the day and the excitement of the beasts provoke a powerful stink which seems to both precede and follow the procession. It is with some relief to all that they finally leave the town and press on toward the high pass at Bwlch. After more plodding hours they crest the hill. Cai signals to Morgana who hurries forward to join him.

“Look.” He points down into the wide valley below. “You are nearly home.” As soon as he says it he wishes the word unspoken. He does not want her to think of anywhere but Ffynnon Las as her home now. But when her face fair lights up with joy at the sight of the village where she was born and raised, Cai feels only pleased that he has been able to give her this small happiness. It is as they are descending the steep slope from Bwlch that he notices an unevenness in Prince’s gait.

“Bring him over here,” he tells Morgana. “Let me see what’s troubling him.”

They dismount and he lifts the pony’s off hind, cleaning it out gently with his pocketknife.

“Ah, he’s picked up a stone. There it is.” He flicks away the sharp piece of sandstone and tests the sole with his thumb. Prince flattens his ears, swishes his tail, and tries to pull his hoof away. Cai shakes his head. “He’s bruised his foot,” he says. “You’ll have to lead him, Morgana. It’s a good thing we’ve a rest day tomorrow.” Seeing her concern he adds, “Don’t worry. Dai’ll take a look at him. He can fit a special shoe if needs be, see?”

She nods, stroking Prince’s neck thoughtfully before gazing in the direction of Cwmdu. Cai puts his hand on her arm. “I’ll take you up to your mother’s cottage on Angel. He’s fit enough for a bit of extra work.”

She smiles her thanks, still managing to give Isolda’s horse a filthy look. Cai marvels that her hatred of the woman should extend even to her horse.

By the time the livestock are safely installed in the enclosures just west of the tollgate at Crickhowell the sun is dipping toward the horizon. Cai could happily ride Angel right into the nearest stretch of river for a swim before heading to the inn to sit with an ale or two, but Morgana has other ideas. With Prince put out to graze, she plants herself firmly beside Angel, her intentions plain.

“Come on then.” Cai reaches down to her. “Let’s go and surprise your mam.”

She grasps his wrist, puts a foot on his boot, and springs up to sit behind him. He cannot suppress a smile at how sensible she was to design a garment that allows her such mobility whilst maintaining her modesty. Just about. He calls to Dai to tell him to keep an eye on the herd in his absence, growls a command at Bracken to stay behind, and they set off at a gentle canter along the narrow valley road that leads to Cwmdu. Morgana sits lightly, her natural balance making her an easy passenger. It may be his imagination, but Cai believes that she holds her arms around his waist just the slightest bit more tightly than is truly necessary. He enjoys the closeness of her, and wishes he could carry her off to a secluded, shady spot somewhere, instead of delivering her to her mother. All too soon, for him, the short terrace of stone houses comes into view. They have barely reached the garden gate when Morgana slips from Angel’s back and runs to the front door. She is perplexed to find it locked. She knocks loudly, but there is no answer. She peers in through the window. Now Cai notices that the tiny front garden is more neglected than he remembers. A cold feeling of foreboding settles upon him, dispelling the warmth of the day, creeping through his bones. Morgana turns to him, and he sees real fear in her eyes.