The Silver Witch (39 page)

The ghoulish being screams back at her, repeating the words she had spat in her face the time she appeared in the studio.

‘I don't understand! Stop it! Seren, where are you? Why don't you help me?'

At the sound of the shaman's name, the ghost from the grave roars with fury, sending one of the trench planks flying through the air to strike Tilda fiercely across the knees. She falls to the ground, groaning in pain.

And the torc falls from her wrist.

The ghost storms forward, raising up the pickax once more, this time gripping it in its phantom hands. Tilda can't get up. She gropes in the mud, searching desperately for the gold band, but can't find it, expecting at any second to feel the steel of the ax chopping into her back.

With a fierce growl, Thistle attacks the fiendish thing that is trying to kill her beloved mistress. The dog hurls itself at the ghoul, snarling and biting and tearing at the insubstantial substance of which the terrible creature is made. The brave hound cannot hope to inflict any real injury on such a spectral form, but her actions cause it to pause, to turn. Tilda scrambles to her feet, abandoning her hunt for the torc, and sets off running as fast as the slippery ground will let her. As she looks back she sees with horror that the ghost has changed the swing of the pickax so that it descends in a swift, deadly arc, that finds its end point in the soft, yielding fur of the dog. Thistle lets out a heartbreaking yelp and falls to the ground.

‘No!!! You cruel bitch!' she screams, maddened by sorrow for her dog and frustration at her own powerlessness. Without thinking, not stopping to consider what she is doing, she turns again and runs at the witch.

The ghost turns its mangled, pulpy face to Tilda and grins a terrible, joyless grin. It slowly spreads its arms wide and then brings them forward and up in one sudden movement. Tilda skids to a stop and watches in horror as the metal tent pegs that had been securing the polythene rise up from the ground. They hover in the air and then turn, their points facing her as if directed by some unseen magnet. The quiver, all two, maybe three dozen of them, and in that half second she understands what is about to happen and throws herself onto the ground. She feels the whooshing of the steel spikes as they fly over her head. Peering up, she can see Thistle lying lifeless in the sullied snow. The evil witch lowers her head and begins her charge. Tilda hauls herself to her feet and she runs. She runs faster than she has ever run before, arms and legs powering her over the stony, icy path, lungs working hard and furious, head down, not once pausing to look back, for she knows to do so would cost her precious seconds.

She takes the lower path, the easiest route back around the lake. The creature is gaining on her with every step. More and more objects are flung at her, stones, lumps of wood, whistling past her head, some striking her back, her elbow, her leg. She can see the disused boathouse to her left.

Can I get to it? Would I be able to keep her out if I got in there? Would it make any difference?

There is no time to even think of an alternative. She breathes deeper, faster, pushing herself into a sprint. All the time she is aware of the creature behind her getting closer and closer. Soon it is so close she can smell its foul breath and feel the heat of its unnatural form. Tilda reaches the door of the boathouse and yanks the rotten handle, scrabbling to pull the door open on its rusted hinges. It drags against the mud, so that she is only able to open it a few inches. She has no choice but to force herself through the gap, scraping her face, her hands, her leg as she flings herself inside.

She turns to try to pull the door shut, but to her amazement the ghost does not attempt to follow her in. Instead, it slams the door behind her. Slams it with such force that the entire building shakes. There follows the sound of stones and mud and wood being thrown against the door. Piled up against it. The door buckles and creaks, some of its planks splintering, but it holds.

And suddenly there is silence. Only the sound of the rain pounding on the old tin roof, and Tilda's own ragged, near hysterical breathing. She waits, listening. But she knows, just
knows
that the thing from the grave has gone. Cautiously, she tries the door. It is stuck solid, completely jammed by the weight of all that has been stacked up in front of it.

It doesn't want me dead. Not yet, at any rate. It wants me trapped. But why? Why?

SEREN

We meet at dawn. And what a violent daybreak greets us, the sky streaked crimson and scarlet, as if the day itself is full of pain and rage. It is close to midsummer, so that the night is confined to the smaller number of hours, and we are up from our beds early this morning to lay Hywel Gruffydd in his final resting place. Every man, woman and child has turned out to pay their respects. The procession makes its sorrowful progress from the crannog and along the shore of the lake, coming to a halt but a few strides from my own house. There was much said and many voices raised in the choosing of the site for Hywel's grave. He lived his life a Christian, and the priest argued he should be given a place next to the church, so that he might be in God's keeping, he said, and comforted by the sound of the monks' prayers.

Brynach wanted a warrior's burial for him in a grand tomb. I told them Hywel did not require comfort but vengeance. On this point we finally agreed. When the punishment for his killer was decided, there was no question of him being buried with the Christians. Their god has not the stomach for the punishment meted out by the Old Religion. The priest backed down quickly enough when he understood what is to be done. What has to be done.

Hywel had neither wife nor children of his own. He saw his prince as his reason for being on this earth. He and Brynach loved each other as warriors, as brothers, and now the prince is bereft. His heart will ache, and there will forever be a space at his table now. When all are assembled at the appointed place, Hywel's coffin is lowered into the deep wound in the earth that awaits it. The priest stands close and says his words. Many of the women and children weep. Brynach and his soldiers stand steady and quiet but they cannot hide the pain of loss they are suffering. When the Christian rites have been observed I step forward. I am not wearing my ceremonial headdress this day, for the occasion is too somber, too personal. Instead I have dressed in my red woolen cloak, my hood up to cover my hair. I lead Tanwen by the hand, moving slowly so that she can walk the short distance to the grave. She, too, wears a cape of red wool, given her by her father, to match mine, but her hood is down, so that her bright hair gleams in the sunlight, as does the golden torc at her throat. It is fitting that we should act for Hywel together. He loved her, and he died protecting me. She will one day take my place as shaman. There is much she must learn.

The hole has been dug deep. The lid of the coffin remains drawn back so that we might say our farewells. Hywel lies, arms crossed, his sword in his hand, grave goods placed all around him—silver plates, goblets, weapons, a fine robe—he will not want for anything in the afterlife. He did not fear death. No man who still has the Old Religion in his heart has reason to. He knew he would be welcomed, be revered. The sadness for him was that he did not die a warrior's death in battle. And that he has left his prince's side. The bitterness we must live with is that he was so cruelly sent from this world by wickedness. And I, I must endure the knowledge that his life was forfeit for mine. Nothing Brynach says can remove that painful truth from me.

There is silence as I pray for his soul, as I ask for him to be honored in the Otherworld. Tanwen is sensitive to the mood of the gathering and to my own disposition. She, too, stands quietly, peering down at the figure she knows so well, her expression questioning his lack of movement. At last she squeezes my hand a little tighter and whispers,
‘Sleeping!'
Together we kneel on the gritty rim of the grave. Tanwen drops in a single white bloom, lily of the valley, for its purity and its sweet scent. I lean down and carefully put into Hywel's hand a small stone jar with a wooden stopper. This is no ordinary pot. It contains a potion heavy with magic. I have worked a spell into it, fixed with poison from the deadly nightshade, and drops of juice from the roots of the oak, and water from the very bottom of the sacred lake, and magic words older than any of these things. Magic to keep him safe in his slumbers. For to gain his justice, his vengeance, he must withstand such evil company that he cannot be left unprotected. Tanwen and I return to stand at our place close to the royal party. Wenna does not meet my eye. How could she? She and I both know who sent Nesta with her cursed serpent. Still Brynach does not wish to hear ill of his wife, and chooses to believe that the maid acted on her own, out of ambition, and out of jealousy of me. I have no proof, of course. He is deaf to this particular truth, and I fear this is in part due to the guilt that gnaws at him every time he looks at the barren wife he does not love. Every time he turns from her to me. But I have seen the truth of it now. Rhodri's success in negotiating a pact with the Queen Aethelfaed was to further his own ends, for he knows his wife's marriage is no longer sufficient to secure his family's position of power. Nesta came to me at Wenna's behest; and Wenna was acting on her brother's urging. The peace Prince Brynach is so content with is built on ground less firm, less stable than the sucking marshes on the north side of the lake. If Rhodri cannot be rid of me, and rid of Tanwen, the Queen of Mercia will act. I know it. I have seen it. I understand my vision clearly now. This truce has served only to allow time to pass. Time that has no doubt served the Mercian ruler's own needs as she builds her army. Rhodri has betrayed his brother-in-law, I am certain of it. The man stinks of betrayal.

Two carpenters drop nimbly into the grave and hammer on the lid of the casket. Once they are out, a layer of good Welsh soil is spread atop it, packed gently, and covered with small stones from the lake, and yet more earth.

Now the mood of the assembled company changes. They are no longer here to say good-bye to the prince's most trusted swordsman. They are no longer here to mourn their friend and send him to the Otherworld with their prayers and their blessings. Now they are here to see justice done. A high price will be paid to avenge Hywel, the suffering will be great, but it is no more than the wretch who murdered him—who would have murdered me—deserves.

Brynach raises his hand as a signal. ‘Bring forth the witch!' he commands.

From the very back of the crowd three burly soldiers emerge, dragging Nesta between them. Her hands are tied behind her back, and her mouth is tightly gagged. She has spent these past days chained in a pig sty, coming out only for the swift trial where no one spoke in her defense. She raged and howled and insisted she was doing only as her mistress bid her, and that as a maid she had no choice but to obey. She might have saved her breath. Prince Brynach called such words treason and vile betrayal. Told her she was wicked to her bones and sought only to further her own cause by killing me. Nesta wept and begged to see the princess, refusing to accept that her mistress had abandoned her to her fate. All the while I had to remain vigilant, offering my own words of prayer and protection, surrounding the traitorous witch with lake water and blessed bones to prevent her using her dark magic. Nesta's guilt was never in question. Sentence was passed. And now her hour is come.

It is Rhodri who stands and delivers the reasons for the woman's execution. His voice is stern, clear and forceful. He serves his office well. How does it sit with his conscience, I wonder, knowing that he is as much responsible for Nesta's end as his sister? If justice were truly to be served, Wenna and Rhodri would also be facing their deaths now, hands tied, fear loosening their bowels. Instead, as the strong hide behind their privilege, yet again it is the weak who must pay the price.

Nesta shakes her head and cries out through her gag. The prince indicates that it should be removed.

‘Say what you must,' he instructs her.

She turns, weeping, to the mistress she professed to love. I do believe she was sincere in this, at least until the point when the princess chose not to defend her, not in any way to help her, if only to lessen the severity of her punishment.

‘My Princess,' she trembles as she speaks, ‘have I not been a true and loyal servant to you all these years? Does it count for naught that I have tended to you, comforted you, been your helpmate and your friend through so many travails? Have I not kept your secrets safe and done everything I could for your happiness? Can you not find it in your heart to help me now? Will you not speak for me?'

The princess does not answer, only turns her head away.

Nesta cries out. ‘What manner of woman are you? Have you no pity?'

‘Enough!' Rhodri seeks to silence her, bidding the guards replace her gag, but Nesta wriggles from their grasp long enough to say more.

‘You!' She directs her rage at me now. ‘If you had only thought of someone other than yourself Hywel would still be alive. This need never have come to pass! None of it! It is your selfishness, Seren Arianaidd, that has been the cause of this!'

‘Be silent, woman!' Brynach tells her. ‘Let the execution proceed.'

Nesta snarls, her face contorting. The sky darkens as a flock of rooks rise up from the woods and fly so thick and so many that they block out the sun's rays. She raises her voice, fueled by hatred and her own fear. ‘A curse upon you! A curse upon all your children, and their children! May they never know peace. May they none of them live to see their own young grown! May they die in terror and screaming, each and every one of them!'

It is a terrible curse. Such a legacy of dread and sorrow! All around people gasp and cry out, some of the children weeping. And all of them look at me, for had she not seconds before named me as the reason for all that we stand witness to?