The Silver Witch (10 page)

I cast my eyes to the ferny floor in search of what I will need for the princess's vision and spellcasting, for my gifts are twofold. The first is that I am able to work as a shaman, to enter a trance in which, should I be blessed, a vision will come to me. A seeing that foretells the future, or answers a question, or offers guidance. There are times I find my visions in the flickering flames of my fire. At others I see them rise from the moonlight reflected on the lake. They can come to me unsought, or I can chase them, in which case I prefer to aid my quest with the use of certain mushrooms or herbs. Today I look for the bright red caps of the elfin toadstool, which I will simmer in milk and sip in silent contemplation. The measure is of vital importance. Too little, and it will prove ineffective. Too much, and it will prove fatal.

My second talent is for the casting of spells, and for this I am called witch. Some put a spit in that word, others whisper it. I care not. The magic was bequeathed me by my mother, as she had received her own from my grandmother. All of us born to dwell in the moonlight, marked with the silver eyes and milk-white hair of our kind. Our spellcraft and talents are born of the lake, so that we know how to use its pure water and the plants and herbs that grow in and around it for our cures and spells. But only I was touched by the Afanc, our wise and ancient mother-of-the-lake who dwells deep in the cold waters. How proud my mother was to have her daughter so blessed! What an honor that I was chosen.

My skills allow me to act upon my seeings, and for that I, and those who need me, should be grateful. Princess Wenna will have subjected herself to Nesta's remedies, some of which might have worked, had the problem been a simple one. But I suspect there is a strong obstacle to her fertility. One that even I may not be able to remove. Still I shall endeavor to help her. For my prince. And for my reputation. I stoop and pick moist moss, dropping it into my basket, and reach further for the tiny leaves of the wood sprite, a shy plant that hides itself beneath its bigger, bolder cousins. As I crouch low my senses respond to the musky scent of the damp earth and rotting stems of the more tender growths that will retreat beneath the soil for the winter. On a warm day such as this these smells are powerful, and a pungent warning of the bleak months that lie ahead.

A rabbit, gray-furred and bright-eyed, hops slowly into the glade. He is intent on his feasting, and has not noticed me. And if he did, he would not fear me. He would recognize a fellow forager, recognize a kindred spirit. He has not the strength and speed of his sister hare, and there is something in his vulnerability that causes me to be uneasy, yet I have an affection for his kind. How could I not? Of a sudden, he tenses, raising his head and ceasing his nibbling in one sharp movement. For a second more he is as still as the dead bough behind him, then his ears twitch once and, in half a heartbeat, he is gone, bounding away through the foliage, a gray blur. Here, then gone. Visible, then vanished. I hear it, too, the approaching horse. Its hooves thud into the ground slowly but heavily. It carries a rider. I straighten up but do not turn. Soon I can hear the clinking of the iron bit the horse works in its mouth, and the creaking of the fine leather of the saddle. The crows flap away from their perch. The robin falls silent. The horse stops. Its rider dismounts.

Without turning, I offer my greeting. ‘Your horse is moving too slowly, my Prince, you will never catch anything.'

I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Ah, I am not engaged in hunting this day, my Prophet.' He treads through the undergrowth and comes to stand beside me.

Only now do I face him. He is dressed casually, his hair hanging forward to partly cover his dark eyes. He wears no mail and carries no shield, but bears his sword on his hip. His smile broadens.

‘Have you come, then, to check for invading armies?' I ask. ‘If so I fear you will be disappointed, for I have not seen a single Viking all morning,' I tell him.

‘What Viking would dare confront Seren Arianaidd, even with an army?'

I glance in the direction he has come from, but cannot see any more riders.

‘You appear to have lost your own men,' I point out. ‘Some might consider that a careless action for a prince.'

‘I rode alone.'

I do not ask why. I can see he is hoping I will do so, but I will not play his game. I busy myself with picking more plants, as if his business is of no concern to me. In truth I know he has sought me out. In my chest, my heart gallops, threatening to betray my feelings. Does he truly know me? Can he see the longing inside me? If so, why does he torment me, for we both know we can never be more than we are to each other.

He follows me. ‘Are you not curious?' he asks. ‘Have you no interest in your prince's reasons for being alone in the woods? I would know what brings you here.'

‘I mind my business,' I reply, giving him a stern look over my shoulder. ‘Most people of good sense would do the same.'

He laughs off the rebuke.

‘Very well, seeing as how you wish to know … I saw a lone figure taking the path alongside the lake, and to my surprise I knew it to be my Seer. What is this? I asked myself. What manner of emergency can compel Seren Arianaidd to go about beneath the brightest sun we have seen in many a long week? Seren who favors moonlight for her excursions almost exclusively.' When I do not respond to this he goes on. ‘I had to find out for myself what it was that brought you from your solitary home. What is it that calls you to the trees when the sun is at its highest and the light is so sharp and so hot?' He steps in front of me and stares at my hair as a shaft of that same sunshine falls through the boughs above and illuminates me. ‘You are a very vision yourself,' he murmurs.

Does he know that last night his wife came to me for help? I doubt it. She will not have discussed the matter with him. Her humiliation runs deep enough as it is. I could tell him, tell him that the reason I am gathering ingredients for a vision quest and a spellcasting is to make his seed quicken in the belly of his princess. I could. But I will not.

‘I was about my work,' I say. ‘If you will stand aside, I would continue.'

But he does not stand aside. Instead he moves closer and stretches one arm out against the trunk of the silver birch to my left. ‘I would detain you but a moment more,' he says gently. I keep my gaze fixed on the ground at our feet as he slowly, cautiously, reaches forward and touches my pale hair, letting his fingers follow its sweep down onto my shoulders. Onto my breast. His fingertips stray across to the narrow gap of bare skin my tunic reveals at my throat. His touch is warm. ‘You are like … no other,' he says. ‘You are moonlight made flesh.'

I raise my face and force myself to look into his eyes. And he to look into mine. He does not flinch, only returns my stare with such intensity I fear for an instant that my own resolve might weaken. That I will let down my guard and reveal the depth of my own feverish wishes. But I must not. Still I do not trust myself to speak, for a woman's heart can be a faithless mistress of her mind, and her tongue is more than able to betray them both!

The prince, too, stands silent for a moment, but then words come tumbling from his hungry mouth. ‘Do you not know that my mind is filled with you? When men speak to me I do not hear their voices, but
yours
. I see not their faces, but
your own
. In sleep there is no escape, for you haunt my dreams. And what dreams they are! You and I … alone…'

‘My Lord, you must not say these things.'

‘I must speak what is in my heart, else it will burst!'

‘You are a prince and should have command of your heart at least.'

‘I have not! It is in your thrall. You have bewitched me.'

‘I would not misuse my gifts so!'

‘And yet it is the truth. Whether you bring it about with purpose or not. I am a man sick with passion…'

‘You are not a man!' I insist. ‘You are protector of your people. Ruler of this land. Husband to your wife.'

‘Yes, I am all these, and yet I am good for none of them if my soul is in torment.'

‘Do not speak to me of souls. Your pain lies a little farther south of your heart, I believe.'

‘Does mocking me serve you well, Seren?'

‘I seek only to remind you of what is true. You are my prince,' I repeat, though now I cannot meet his gaze. ‘I am your shaman, your prophet, your witch. Our destinies are linked in
these
ways
alone.
I will be your guide, your most faithful ally, but I can never share your home. Nor your bed.' I push at his arm, making to stride past him, but in a swift movement he traps me against the tree, his body pressed against mine, his breath hot upon my cheek as he whispers urgently.

‘Then I will meet you in the wildness of the woods, or on the soothing shores of the sacred lake, or under the gentle cloak of darkness. Wherever, whenever you will it, just so long as you do not turn from me again!'

He notices me tilt my head and I know that he, too, has heard the galloping horse that approaches. His own steed pauses in its grazing and whinnies to its stable mate. Prince Brynach wrenches himself from me, cursing as the sturdy figure of his faithful captain, Hywel Gruffydd, rides into view. I stand straight, resisting the impulse to scurry away through the trees, willing my heart to return to a more stable rhythm.

‘My Prince!' Hywel calls out as his wide-rumped mount slows to a jarring trot. ‘I was not aware you wished to ride out. Forgive me for not being at your service,' he pants.

‘No matter, Hywel,' the prince replies with a practiced casualness that belies the turmoil I know him to be suppressing. ‘I had a wish to take in some of this rare sunshine. My route crossed that of our Seer.' He gestures toward me and his captain nods curtly, grunting a greeting that might have earned him a cuff around the ear had we been in more formal circumstances.

‘I bid you both good day,' I say, and, without allowing either the time to respond, I march past the prince's patient horse and walk as quickly as I can away from that scene of such tightly bottled tempers as might cause the lake itself to seethe. It takes me all my wits not to run. Back to my home. Back to my seclusion. Back to the place I belong. Alone.

 

6

TILDA

Tilda lies awake in her bed, listening to the moaning of the wind that has been gathering strength all night. The temperature in the cottage is noticeably colder now, and she has already been driven to finding extra blankets. There is something snug about being in a warm bed, heavy with covers, in a cool room. Daylight hours have shortened unhelpfully, so that she has been working in the studio more and more by the uneven light of candles or storm lanterns. She has not attempted to fix the electrics in the house again, nor to call back Bob the electrician. In her heart of hearts, she knows there would be no point. She knows that she is the reason behind it. She is somehow triggering surges or splutterings in power that cause the system to overload and fail. The same way she caused the professor's clock to stop. The same way she disabled the diver's boat.

Except that I meant to do that one. Pity I can't decide to fix things. Just break 'em.

From the corner of the room come sounds of Thistle digging at her bedding in an attempt to get comfortable. Tilda had done her best to dissuade the dog from coming upstairs, reasoning that she would be warmer in the kitchen by the Rayburn, but Thistle became distressed at being separated from her mistress, so that in the end she had sacrificed a spare duvet to provide her with somewhere to sleep at the foot of her bed. Outside the last of the clouds have been blown far away, so that the light of the full moon falls through the window. Tilda has long since given up closing the curtains, growing ever more accustomed to making use of what natural light there may be, and increasingly following the rhythm of the short winter days. In the silvery illumination she is shocked to see her own breath forming thin puffs.

If it gets any colder, we shall both be sleeping downstairs.

She peers over at the dog. Even in the half-light she can see the poor hound is shivering.

‘Come on, girl. Get your skinny self up here,' she says at last, patting the bed beside her.

With surprising ease, and needing no further encouragement, Thistle springs up onto the bed, tail wagging.

‘Well, you certainly seem pretty well healed, don't you? Want to come for a run with me in the morning, hmm?' She ruffles the dog's fur and it settles down next to her, a warm presence and welcome draft excluder. Thistle wriggles deeper into the bedding, and gazes up adoringly at her mistress with a look of such trust that Tilda is moved by it. Never having shared her home with a dog before, she finds she is frequently surprised at the rewards this symbiotic relationship brings. The unexpected velvety softness of the animal's fuzzy, cocked ears, or her silent but attentive presence as Tilda works in the studio—such things are small but real pleasures.

The two manage a fitful sleep. Tilda is disturbed by the raucous wind, and unaccustomed to sharing her bed. Each time she moves, however minutely, Thistle adjusts her position so that the gap between them is closed. Tilda remembers how soundly Mat would sleep, scarcely stirring all night. She notices that the memory no longer causes her physical pain. The customary jolt that has, until this moment, accompanied each and every recollection of him is absent. The realization brings mixed feelings. There is relief, certainly, but also a strange sense of guilt, as if by not hurting she is allowing him to become less important to her.

And why now? With all this weird stuff going on … Don't I need him now more than ever?

She is too sleepy to try to make sense of it all. When she did what she did to the boat motor; when she dared to harness and use the bewildering ability that has come to her seemingly from nowhere, Tilda was briefly frightened, but then, to her own astonishment, she felt exhilarated. Empowered.