The Winter Witch (6 page)

“’Tis nothing,” he tells her. “My own fault. The mark will only last long enough to remind me not to be so foolish again.” He does not wish to appear more stupid than he feels so he withdraws his hand, waving her toward the table. “Come, sit. The food is ready,” he says, moving back to the range to dish up the bacon and eggs.

He takes his place opposite Morgana and pours her some tea. His strange new wife eats with undisguised relish. She devours every morsel on her plate, using her bread to mop up the last drop of golden yolk. Cai almost expects her to lick the platter, but she stops short of doing so. When she has finished she sits back in her chair and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Cai smiles, shaking his head. With her hair loose, unbrushed and tangled, her face flushed from running and from laughing, grease from the bacon smeared across her cheek, and her eyes bright from enjoyment of the meal, she looks as wild and uncivilized as it is possible to be. He has never seen a woman in such a condition.

“Well, well, my wild one, what is everyone going to make of you?”

She smiles broadly and gives a shrug that clearly says she gives not a tinker’s cuss for what anyone thinks of her.

“I’m going to check on the ponies after breakfast. Would you like to come with me?”

She nods vigorously, eagerly getting to her feet.

“Whoa! Finish your tea first,” he laughs, then adds, “Might be a good idea to put some clothes on, too. Don’t want to frighten the horses, see?”

Morgana looks down at her nightdress, as if she has been oblivious, all this time, to her state of undress. She blushes becomingly.

The moment is interrupted by a knocking on the front door. Cai frowns, getting up.

“Who would be calling at this hour?” he asks, and goes to find out the identity of their unwelcome visitor.

*   *   *

He claims he is not given to entertaining and yet he has a ceaseless stream of visitors. He returns with a tall woman dressed in an expensive riding habit, complete with veiled hat. The outfit is made of a sumptuous wine-red velvet, which has the most beautiful luster to it. She is all elegance and grace and at once I feel uncomfortable. A moment before I was eating a delicious breakfast, in my new kitchen, cooked for me by my new husband, and I felt the first ticklings of happiness. Now I stand before this proud, womanly creature and feel like a girl caught somewhere she does not belong. Why did he bring her in here? Could he not have shown her into the parlor?

“Morgana, this is my good friend, Mrs. Isolda Bowen, from Tregaron. Isolda, this is Morgana,” says he.

Just Morgana, is it? Not
my wife,
or
the new Mrs. Jenkins
. Not for his good friend Mrs. so-on-and-so-on. I have been demoted for her sake, it seems. What is she to him, this woman who imposes herself upon us at breakfast time?

“I am so very pleased to meet you, Morgana.” She steps toward me, holding out a gloved hand which I must shake. “Please call me Isolda,” says she. Now Cai is stumbling and mumbling about my not talking. Really, there are times he makes such a bad job of words himself I wonder he bothers. She still has hold of my hand and squeezes it tighter now, as if to convey some sort of sympathy or understanding, I suppose. I find her touch quite unpleasant, and am glad of the glove. There is something about her, something about this handsome, confident woman, that I do not like. There is a darkness inside her, despite her pleasing appearance.

“We were all so pleased to hear Cai had taken a new wife,” says she, at last releasing my hand. I rub it against the skirt of my nightdress. Cai notices and frowns. “Your husband and I shared the affliction of grief at losing our first spouses,” she goes on. “Of course my own dear husband departed this life many years ago, but still I like to think I was able to understand and to comfort Cai in his time of loss and sorrow.”

The two exchange small smiles. Conspiratorial smiles. I am confused. Why did he not choose to marry his good friend Mrs. Bowen? They are clearly close. It would be obvious to a bat in a sack that she adores him. Why, then, did he not take her to be the new mistress of Ffynnon Las?

“
Duw,
where are my manners?” Cai exclaims suddenly, pulling out a chair for the woman. She sits, gracefully settling onto the wooden seat, laying her riding crop upon the table. “Perhaps you would like some tea?” he asks.

“Tea would be most welcome,” says she.

Cai looks at me. I look at him. I take my place at the table and land heavily in my chair. She is
his
very good friend. Let
him
fetch her tea. He does so, clumsily. The burn on his hand is still troubling him, and he favors it awkwardly. Well, that is his fault. It is all his fault. If he had shown her into the parlor I might have been less wrong-footed, might have agreed to make the tea. She is not watching him but keeps her eyes on me. Her gaze is unsettling. Did he ever, truly, find comfort in her presence? I have the sensation of earwigs ascending my spine. This woman is not to be trusted.

“Morgana”—how I dislike my name on her lips!—“you must not think I regularly go about calling upon neighbors at this hour. The brightness of the sun woke me early. Such a beautiful morning, I decided at once to make the most of it by taking Angel out for a gallop. I’ve tied him up in the shade now. I think he’s glad of a little rest. Do you like to ride?” she asks.

I consider shaking my head, just to stop the conversation, such as it is. Just to avoid being in any way in agreement with the woman, but Cai is watching me, and he knows the truth. I nod, but show no enthusiasm. Still this does not prevent her from treading the common ground between us.

“Then I hope you will allow me to take you out one day soon. I have a wonderful young horse that would suit you very well, I’m certain of it. Cai, would you permit your wife to come riding with me?”

“Of course,” says he, putting tea in front of us. “That’s a kind offer. Isn’t it, Morgana?”

A nod can be surprisingly eloquent. Neither Cai nor Isolda miss the contempt in my response. I see Cai’s jaw set and his eyes harden. Why does it matter so much to him that we please her? How many more people will I be expected to drink tea with while they ogle me as if I were an exhibit in a traveling circus? Did he marry me to provide a subject for gossip and curiosity among his precious neighbors? I feel suffocated by the thought. Trapped. I begin to experience a familiar pressure in my head. There is a noise inside my skull like the winter wind through pine trees. I know Cai is talking to me, saying my name, puzzlement in his voice, but he sounds distant. I want to close my eyes, to let myself be taken to that other place, to escape. A touch on my hand brings me spinning back into the room. I shift my focus, with some effort, and see that Isolda has laid her hand upon mine. She no longer wears her gloves, and the unexpected contact with her flesh sends a burning sensation up my arm and deep into my struggling mind.

“Morgana?” Her words are syrupy with concern. “Are you quite well, child?”

I snatch my hand away. A blue bottle, fat and heavy, flies into the room. It settles on the table between us. I frown, staring at it. For a moment it merely rubs its shiny legs together, but then, quite suddenly, it rises up and hovers between myself and Isolda. She watches me closely, her head on one side, with an expression I can only name as pity. I will not endure her condescension! The fly all of a sudden swoops toward her, buzzing and darting at her face. Without being in the least bit disturbed, Isolda lifts her hand as if to calmly swat it away. At least, this is what she allows Cai to see. I, however, have a closer view, and witness her trap the fly in her hand, silencing it with a deft squeeze so that its life juices seep out between her fingers. All the while she never once takes her cold eyes from me.

I leap to my feet, my chair toppling noisily to the flagstones behind me. Pausing only to scowl at the vile woman I stomp from the kitchen, fleeing to my bedroom, Cai’s irritation clear in his voice as he calls after me.

Almost an hour passes before I hear the front door rub against the stones and sounds of exchanged farewells at the garden gate. The horse’s hoofbeats speed away down the drive. Moments later I hear footsteps on the stairs. I turn toward the door, waiting to see how I am to be rebuked. But Cai does not come into the room. He does not even knock upon the door. Instead he speaks through it, his voice flat and restrained.

“I’m going up to see the ponies. Mrs. Jones won’t be in today. There are vegetables in the pantry for you to make our midday meal, Morgana. I’ll be back at noon.”

So saying he leaves, the dogs barking as they follow him. I go to the window expecting to see him striding across the pond meadow, but he does not. I wait, and shortly afterward he reappears, this time mounted on an unremarkable chestnut cob who lumbers up the hill. I watch them until they are out of sight. Midday meal indeed! I pace the room, the worn floorboards smooth beneath my feet. He knows I want to see the ponies. He invited me to go with him. And now I am not to go, all because of that hateful
good friend
of his. I shall stay in my room all day. Let him cook his own food! I will lose myself in father’s books. That way the hours will pass unnoticed and I will forget about the injustice of my treatment.

And yet, the day is so lovely, I do not wish to spend it shut in the house. Was my behavior really so rude? Why can he not see that woman for what she is? The way she looked at me … as if I were deserving of her pity. A thing pathetic. She thinks I am not fit to be mistress of Ffynnon Las. Well, I shall show her different. I shall show them all different.

I pull on my workaday brown dress and lace up my boots. The soles are wearing so thin I can feel stones through them. On the top stair I pause, my hand on the banister. Once again I feel a chill emanating from the direction of Cai’s room. There is no draft, but still the air seems to move toward me, as though icy fingers were laid upon my shoulder. I turn round, but there is nothing to see. Cross with myself for being so fanciful, I go down into the kitchen. The fire in the grate looks surly and unhelpfully low. There is a little coal in the brass bucket. I tip it on, causing a stinking plume of grey smoke but scant heat. Surely it will gather strength in a while. I venture into the pantry. There are jars of pickles and bottles of preserved fruit and bags of flour and hams hanging from hooks above my head. Mrs. Jones will not see anyone in this house go hungry, I think. I decide I will assemble a
cawl
of sorts. The staple hearty stew that bubbles away in kitchens across the land. The very idea of it transports me home. Well, this one will have to lack the lamb Mam might have put in it on fat days, but it will be
cawl,
nonetheless. Thinking of her, and of her cooking, and of home, brings a cold ache to my heart. What will she be doing now? How will she be faring without me? What would she make of my new home? I wonder if she knew how grand it is. I find it hard to believe, for she could surely never have imagined me the wife of a gentleman farmer with a housekeeper. I know Mam would laugh long and loud at the sight of me here in this larder faced with the task of cooking. The thought of her laughter brings another sharp stab of longing for her. She used to say I could burn water, left to my own devices. Well, I am a wife now. With a home of my own. And I will cook if it pleases me.

I gather an armful of vegetables and take them to the kitchen table. The smoke has dwindled, and there are small flames visible in the fireplace now. I remove the kettle from the hook above the fire and search for a suitable stewpot. The one I find is cast iron, heavy even when empty, but will serve my purpose. I half fill it with water from the pail before, with some difficulty, hooking it into place over the heat. A short search produces a worn but sharp knife and I set about peeling and chopping. It seems to me vegetables are designed to fight off our attempts to render them edible. They hide beneath mud and tough skins, knobbled with eyes or crafty shapes which defy the attentions of my blade. I have not more than half finished my chore before the knife skids off a misshapen carrot and slices into my finger. I gasp, putting the wound to my mouth, the metallic taste of blood making my stomach tighten. Enough of this nonsense. Let the boiling water finish the job. I scoop up my ill-prepared ingredients and tip them into the pot. Water splashes out, hissing as it meets the hot coals. The grey mess looks nothing like the
cawl
I had been aiming for. Finding a long wooden spoon I poke at it cautiously. The heat from the coals beneath the pot and the rising steam scald my hand so that I drop the spoon. Stepping back to a safe distance I frown at the bothersome concoction. I narrow my eyes, take a deep breath, and direct my mind to the matter. Slowly the spoon stands upright and then begins to stir. It stirs and stirs and stirs, rhythmically mixing the stew into something that might, with a little cooking, actually be fit to eat. When I am content with the results I jerk my head in the direction of the table and the wooden spoon obediently flies out of the pot and comes to rest next to the chopping board. I find a lid that fits snugly and drop it over the
cawl
. From beneath it comes a promising bubbling noise. I can see no value in my sitting to watch the thing, and in any case, the room is oppressively hot with the fire glowing on such a warm day, so I go outside.

I scan the high horizon for sign of Cai, or perhaps a glimpse of darting orange that might be one of the corgis. There is nothing. I wander to the back of the house to investigate the yard of barns and stables. They are all constructed of the same cool stone as the house, with steeply sloping roofs of slate to withstand the copious rain of a Welsh winter. I am on the point of entering the tall hay barn when the sound of running water diverts me. I find, a little to the left of the yard, set into a steep bank that climbs up to the higher meadows, a well. There is a low stone wall to the front of it, into which has been placed a trough for the animals. This in itself is not remarkable, but beside it a further circle of stonework separates another deep pool. This has been designed so that livestock cannot reach it, and is set back beneath a curving ceiling of stone, like the entrance to a cave. Mosses of surprising brightness and delicate, feathery ferns grow among the slabs and rocks. At the uppermost point, water, quick and glittering in the morning sunshine, cascades down into the pool. The combination of shade, depth of water, the color of the stones, and some unknown element make the surface appear to be the most beautiful blue. Ah! It comes to me this is what gives the house its name, for Ffynnon Las means “blue well.” There is no visible outlet from either pool or trough, so the water must run on underground, presumably down to the pond in the meadow below. Leaning forward I cup my hand beneath the spout. The water is icy cold, having come straight from the heart of the hill, as yet unwarmed by summer air or sunlight. It tastes good. Slightly peaty, but exquisitely fresh and reviving. At the very top of the well ceiling there is a broad, flat piece of masonry with something carved into it. It is old and worn, but I am able to make out the faint remnant of two letters, though which they are I cannot be sure. There is something about this well, something beyond the freshness of the bubbling spring water and the prettiness of the plants. I sense, no, more than this, I would swear I can
hear
something more. It is as if the well sings to me, a high, clear note, ringing through the warmth of the day, laying its sound sweetly upon my ears.