The Winter Witch (21 page)

While the others help themselves to ale, bread, and cheese, I step over to the well and dip my hands into the pool of glossy water. The shade has kept it cool and I feel goose bumps rising on my skin as I scoop up the water and splash it over my arms and neck. I hear laughter behind me.

“Half measures are no good,” Dai tells me, still chortling. “Best to go the whole hog and climb right in.”

Mrs. Jones feigns shock at the idea. “Mrs. Jenkins will do no such thing
.
” She flaps her teacloth at the farrier. “Bathing in front of you ruffians indeed! It would not be proper.”

I smile at her, but the thought is tempting. To climb over the mossy stones and lower myself into the dark pool until I am completely submerged and could come out refreshed and rid of this grit and filth … it is an enticing notion, audience or no.

Cai drains his tankard and shakes his head.

“Mrs. Jones is right,” says he. “Besides, we don’t want you contaminating the spring now, do we? Cattle might not drink from that trough again if they see a woman swimming in it.” He is struggling to keep a straight face as he speaks, but the others are less certain than I that he is joking, and their breaths are held. I put on my most charming smile and crook my finger at him, beckoning.

“Oh, look out,” Dai cautions, wiping foam from his top lip. “I reckon your wife thinks a wash would improve you, too, Ffynnon Las.”

“Oh a wash, is it?” Cai puts down his drink and walks toward me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, there’s the pot calling the kettle black,” says he.

As soon as he has ventured close enough I scoop an armful of water out and fling it at him. And then another, and another. The men laugh at the sight of him dripping and splashed, water making clean tracks through the grime on his skin. He dashes forward, shoveling handfuls of water at me until my hair hangs wet about my shoulders. Dai the Forge laughs fit to bust, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of the stables. Even Mrs. Jones cannot contain her mirth. Faster and more furiously we splash one another until he catches hold of my arms to stop me. But I continue to wriggle, and as I attempt to escape he grabs me around the waist.

“You’ll not get away from me so easy, my wild one!”

In one swift movement he has lifted me off the ground and makes to drop me in the pool, but I clutch at his soaked shirt and pull hard, putting him off his balance. There is a second’s pause, I hear him shout, and then we both tip over the wall and into the pool. Even as I fight the urge to gasp at the coldness of the water I am aware that he does not let go of me, but makes sure I come quickly and safely to the surface. We emerge to raucous guffaws from Dai and Edwyn, and shrieks from Mrs. Jones. I find I do not care how ridiculous I must appear to them, or how indecent. I care only that we are standing here together, wet to the skin, laughing, close, happy. It is as intimate a moment as I have experienced in my life.

*   *   *

The cool of the early evening finds Cai and Morgana sitting at the kitchen table. Mrs. Jones lowers her bulk into the chair by the stove. The fire in the hearth has served its purpose for the day and is being allowed to fade.

“Well,
Duw,
” says Mrs. Jones
.
“’Tis nice to have peace and quiet once more now those boys have gone.”

Cai smiles. “Dai’s the best farrier for miles around, mind. They are a good team.”

“Good and rowdy.” She makes a poor show of hiding her affection for them, and for the fun of the day. “Encouraging Mrs. Jenkins to climb in the well,” she tutts, “and you no better, Mr. Jenkins,” she says, wagging a finger at him.

Morgana grins. Her hair has dried, and she has changed into clean clothes, but she still looks like a person who has recently taken a dip, her curls flowing unchecked about her shoulders, and her feet bare.

Cai finds himself gazing at her. “We were all in need of a bath,” he says.

“Maybe you were.” Mrs. Jones stretches out her legs stiffly. “But the well is not a place for horseplay and nonsense. Not
that
well.”

A look passes between her and Morgana that Cai cannot quite make sense of. It seems the two women have some shared secret, and one that he is clearly not to be told about. Part of him is pleased that they are becoming such good friends—it matters to him that Morgana not be lonely. And part of him, he is surprised to find, is just a little bit jealous of that closeness.

“Well, Mrs. Jones,” he says lightly, “who knows what wonders that magic water might do to a person who bathes in it.”

The old woman tutts and purses her lips before closing her eyes and settling deeper into her chair. “Make fun if you must, Mr. Jenkins. One day you might be forced to admit the truth of that well. One day.”

She falls silent briefly before setting up a deep, rumbling snore.

Cai smiles at Morgana and shrugs, beckoning her to the table.

“Come,” he says, “I’ve something to show you.”

He stands up and takes from a small pile on a high shelf one of the maps he inherited from his father. He unfolds it and spreads it out on the table before them. He leans over the faded charts, pointing out the route the drove will take.

“We will set off from Tregaron early and head directly west,” he tells her. “I want to make it through the Abergwesyn Pass and up to the Epynt on the first day. Won’t be easy, mind. Takes a while for the herd to settle. They’re unnerved by leaving their farms and being put together with new stock. Not to mention the muddle the sheep and ponies are bound to get into for a few days.” He looks up from the map for a moment. Morgana is intent on learning everything, he can see that. The way she frowns trying to make sense of the lines and squiggles in front of her. The way she is uncharacteristically still. As she bends forward her loose hair swings down, revealing her neck. Cai has to fight the urge to plant a kiss on that tender part of the nape which he finds so alluring. He recalls how beautiful she had looked with her hair wet and her clothes clinging to her as he held her in the well pool. If they had not had an audience he would have kissed her again. Even now the memory of their first kiss stirs him. He clears his throat and returns to his explanations.

“The warm weather will have dried the ground again, so the going should be good. We’ll pass through Brecon and follow the main road toward Abergavenny. It will mean paying tolls. I’ll avoid them where I can, of course, but I have to find a balance, see? Too many turnpikes and we’ll be broke before ever we reach the fattening fields. Too many mountain routes or rocky paths over difficult ground and our progress will be awful slow, and the animals will lose condition.” He puts his finger under the name of a small town. “We can spend the night here,” he tells her. “Do you recognize the place?”

Morgana shakes her head.

“Why, ’tis Crickhowell. I thought you might like to ride up to Cwmdu and call on your mother.”

She turns to him, eyes wide with delight, a smile transforming her face. She nods keenly.

“Well, there we are then. Only one night, mind. Can’t afford more. The grazing’s a bit costly in that area, see? Right, then we continue west, oh … we’re onto the next map now.” He folds up the first one and opens another. “Not that I’ll be taking these with me
.
” He gives a short laugh. “I should know my way by now. Might be my first drove as
porthmon,
but I’ve been on plenty, man and boy. Not likely to get lost!” He straightens up, looking at her again, and says, “I think you’ll make a fine drover yourself, Mrs. Jenkins. For a woman, that is.”

Morgana punches him playfully on the shoulder.

“Course, there are those as say ’tis bad luck to employ a woman. Oh, they’re happy enough for them to follow behind on foot, knitting stockings to sell, earning a few pennies weeding along the way. But working the herd…” He shakes his head. “There will be one or two will complain, no doubt. You just leave them to me. This is my drove, and I’ll decide who works it. You’ll be paid a drover’s wage, same as the others.” He hesitates, then adds, “There’s no one could manage those ponies better than you. That’s the truth of it.”

She meets his gaze. This is not something she is embarrassed to hear.

From the hearthside comes the low rumbling of Mrs. Jones’s snore. Bracken stretches out on the cool flagstones at her feet. It has been a tiring day for all of them, but a satisfying one. A successful one. A good one. Cai feels they have taken an important step, he and his strange little wife. A step into their new lives together. He bites his bottom lip, contemplating what to do next, uncertain.

At last he folds up the maps, quickly putting them away.

“Wait there,” he says. “I’ve something for you.” He leaves the kitchen, running up the stairs to his bedroom and returning two minutes later. He stands in front of Morgana awkwardly, shuffling his feet, a small parcel in his hands.

“I want you to have this,” he says, not yet giving her the paper-wrapped object. “I meant to give it to you a long time ago. Well … on our wedding day, in fact. ’Tis traditional you should have one, and I know we did not have a proper courtship. It has bothered me, sometimes. You’ve been … very fair … about that. Here.” At last he all but shoves it into her hands.

Morgana unwinds the wrapping and finds inside a small, carefully carved lovespoon. The wood is dark and smooth, the bowl of the little spoon worked into a shallow dip the size of her thumbprint. The handle is of a barley sugar twist, beautifully carved. The end of the handle is fashioned into a curious hollow block which rattles when she shakes it. There is a fine leather thong threaded through the handle so that the spoon can be worn around the neck.

Seeing her confusion Cai finds it necessary to explain further, chattering on, nervous about what her reaction to the gift will be.

“I made it for you while we were engaged, but had not the opportunity to give it to you before our marriage. And then, on the day, well, the moment did not seem quite right.… And since … As I said, ’tis a tradition, a token of my … affection, if you like.”

Morgana turns the spoon over and over in her hands, letting her fingers glide over its polished surface, examining every detail. Her mouth is a little open, her cheeks a tad flushed, but he cannot quite gauge her response.

“There is something else about it. See, here.” He takes it and surprises her by putting it to his mouth. He blows into the top of it and produces a clear, loud note. Morgana gasps. He does it again. “It’s a whistle, see? I added this bit after … well, I added it later. I thought you mind find it useful, on the drove. If you need to call me, to signal, I don’t know, something about the herd, or if you are in trouble, or … Here, you try.” He passes it back to her.

Morgana takes the spoon as if it might bite her and stares at it.

“Go on,” says Cai. “Give it a go.”

Slowly she lifts it to her lips. Her first attempt is so tentative that the whistle makes only a breathy gasp.

“Go on, my wild one, put some effort into it!” Cai teases.

Morgana takes a deep breath and blows, this time producing a shrill blast that surprises her so much she drops the spoon. Mrs. Jones wakes shrieking from her slumbers.

“
Duw!
What in the Lord’s name was that? Heaven protect us, Mr. Jenkins, I swear I heard the last trumpet sounding!” she cries, her hands clutching at her racing heart. Bracken leaps and barks around the room. Morgana stands as if turned to stone. Cai bends down, picks up the spoon, and hands it back to her.

“Well, will you wear it, Morgana? For me?”

By way of answer she snatches the gift from him and throws her arms about his neck, hugging him tightly.

Cai laughs and twirls her around and around, holding her close, luxuriating in the feel of her body against his, and the knowledge that she has accepted the gift gladly, understanding the caring that lay behind its invention.

“Well, well,” says Mrs. Jones, barely recovered. “A person shuts their eyes for five minutes and when they wake up the world has gone mad!”

Eventually, above the noise and gaiety in the room comes the sound of a carriage approaching. Cai lets go of Morgana and steps over to the window.

“Isolda,” he says simply, feeling his shoulders droop. He knows it is an uncharitable thought, but he does not welcome her arrival, and would give a fair amount for this moment, this mood, with Morgana to be left uninterrupted by the formality of entertaining a visitor. What is more her arrival forces him to turn his mind to the matter of her offer of money. His visit to the bank a few days earlier had been both humiliating and fruitless. His options are few. It is becoming obvious to him that he has little choice but to take the loan from Isolda. The thought fills him with unease.

Even so, he goes to the front door to welcome her, Morgana following him with the dark expression she seems to reserve solely for Isolda Bowen.

Outside, the driver helps his mistress from the carriage, and now Cai sees that Isolda’s black thoroughbred is tied to the rear of it.

“Cai, Morgana, please forgive the intrusion at such an hour. I had planned to call earlier in the day but had business to attend to which delayed me.” She strides to the horse, unhitches it, and leads it forward. “Now, I know you will protest, but I shall hear no argument from you, Mr. Jenkins. I want you to take Angel so that you are suitably mounted for the drove.” She holds up a hand to stave off his response. “No! Do not deny me the chance to do this small thing by way of thank you for all the kindnesses you have shown me over the years. You cannot pretend that your old cob, dear as I’m sure she is to you, is up to the work. Angel is fit and strong and I am certain he will go excellently well for you.”

Cai glances at Morgana and is a little cast down to see open loathing on her face now. Why does she hate the woman so? He still cannot find a satisfactory answer to this question. He looks at the magnificent horse before him, with its sleek black coat, its strong, lithe limbs, its powerful chest and noble head. It would, indeed, be an asset to him.

“’Tis true, Honey is a little beyond her best years…” he says.