The Silver Witch (19 page)

I do not trust the word of the Queen of Mercia any more than I trust that of Rhodri, brother-of-the-princess. And I trust him not at all.

The day of the feast is also the day of the first deep fall of snow this year. For hours the previous night the skies shed their burden until the ground was cloaked in white and all sounds were stilted and robbed of their echo. By morning the clouds were spent, so that the blue of the heavens could be found in the new, glittering surface of the land.

It is midday, and the revelries are set to begin. I reluctantly make my way toward the crannog. I dislike crowds. I more strongly dislike gatherings for the purpose of carousing and indulging any and all vices to excess. Man is a creature who raises himself above his base instincts with effort, and keeps himself there only with continued vigilance. What profit is there in undoing that vital restraint? Why would anyone wish to reduce themselves to their lowest state, and have witnesses to that action? I have donned my ceremonial dress, for it is as Seer I am invited. Each present must declare his or her position, to show the breadth, wisdom, and strength of our prince's company. To have one such as me as his boon is seen as an enviable thing. Something to crow about. But the cock who crows loudest attracts not only admirers but foxes also. Prince Brynach would do well to remember that.

There is much milling about and excitement on the crannog. The whole village has come, as indeed they must. Shepherds have left their flocks. Cattlemen leave their stock to mind themselves. The blacksmith's forge is cold. The fisherman's nets and traps lie in the bottom of his boat. For a few hours, everything will wait on the pleasure of the prince, and it is his pleasure that everyone should have a day of rest, a day of feasting.

Without the movement of horses or the common workaday activities, the snow is largely undisturbed, save for the many footsteps of the eager villagers, so that all appears brightly garbed and fresh, without mud, nor drab gray stone, nor weathered stick fence or winter-bare tree to dull the picture. Smoke rises from the hole in the roof of the great hall, and even from outside it is possible to breathe in the sweet aroma of the roasting hogs within. I feel disquieted as I pause before entering, though I am uncertain as to the cause. I know I will face Nesta and Princess Wenna, and neither will be pleased to see me. I know that I must tolerate the unwelcome company of Rhodri and his pimpled son. I know also that I will be in the presence of my prince. I fear that this last disturbs me the most.

Inside the hall all is color and noise. The fire at the center has constructed over it two great spits, turned by damp-shirted boys who labor diligently to ensure the even cooking of the pair of pigs that will feed us all today. For a victory in battle a steer might have been slaughtered, but however festive this event, it is still midwinter, with harsh months ahead, and a few promises do not warrant the same jubilation as a triumph gained by bloody fighting. Nonetheless, many here will be more than satisfied to eat good meat for once. The women have turned out in their finest clothes, with all manner of baubles and geegaws pressed into service to dress up a tired kirtle or pinafore. The men have scrubbed themselves to a ruddy shine and all wear anything that might be classed as a weapon. For whose benefit this mummer's attempt at a show of might is made I am not clear. Their own, I must assume. A top table has been set, with chairs and places ready for our noble family when they see fit to arrive. Down the side of the hall are benches and low tables for the lesser mortals to sit at and take their food and drink. At the far end of the hall is space for the musicians and dancing that will come later. Children dart excitedly between the adults, and there is an air of cheerful expectancy and general goodwill. I am courteously greeted and acknowledged by those who see me. They do not count me friend, for they are too afraid of what I am and what I do. Rather, they see me as a useful asset; one who might divine disaster, so allowing it to be avoided. They know I travel to places they cannot, and that frightens them. Yet at the same time they are pleased to have me act on their behalf, to risk my soul, my safety, for their protection. Do they believe I care for them, as their milksop priest would have them believe he does? He readily professes God's love for them and his own as if they were the same. He entreats them to love one another, to forgive their enemies. I was taught to use my skills against anyone who would declare himself enemy. Forgiveness is for mothers of small children, for wronged wives to give and petty thieves to receive. It is not for rulers or warriors. I do not love mankind. I cannot view the herd as any more than that. I keep my love for those deserving of it, and they are few enough.

One of the minstrels takes up a ram's horn and blows a long, clear note. Prince Brynach and his party are come. A cheer, hearty and sincere, greets him as he enters the hall, the princess on his arm. They process toward the top table, followed by Rhodri and Si
ō
n, his lickspittle son. His loyal swordsman, Hywel is here, of course, though he does not look at ease with such formality, forced as he is into an uncomfortably tight tabard. Following on, Nesta basks in her mistress's position. How secure does she feel in that, I wonder? The prince pauses when he draws level with me.

‘Seren Arianaidd,' he nods, and I bow low. He reaches out and takes my hand, bidding me rise. There is a sudden hush. Has he forgotten where he is? Who he is? A prince might take the hand of a highborn lady, perhaps, such as the wife of another prince, or a relative of his own wife, but not my hand! I am not only a woman of no rank, I am Prophet and Witch. To touch me is to connect with all those dangerous and magical things that I hold within me. Is this a deliberate crossing of a well-guarded boundary, or simply a mistake? I am unable to decide. ‘We are honored to have you as our guest,' he declares, not only to me, but to the whole of the hall. It is clear he is making a point of underlining his allegiance to me. Of my importance to him. He turns to address the gathering, and still he holds my hand! Beside him the princess tenses but does not otherwise let her thoughts show. Nesta purses her lips. The prince raises his free hand for quiet, but this is not necessary. An astonished silence has already filled the great hall. ‘This day would not have come about were it not for the wisdom of our Seer. It was her vision that prompted me to take action. Her seeing told of the downfall of the realm, of the destruction of our crannog. I heeded her warning. I sought counsel with my advisors'—here he pauses to incline his head at Rhodri, who is already puffed up like a bullfrog—‘and we found a path to peace. Thanks to the skills of our Prophet we have arrived at this moment without bloodshed.'

There is a spontaneous cheer, born not so much of joyous respect, but of relief for the explanation for the prince's curious behavior toward me. He lets go my hand and moves on. The princess never for one second loses her composure, though still she manages to treat me to a glance colder than the winter's day outside. Nesta glares at me as she passes, which makes me smile, much to her annoyance. As they take their seats, Rhodri whispers something in his sister's ear, whilst not taking his eyes from my face. I swear if that man were sliced with a blade he would not bleed blood, but ooze bile.

And so the drinking and feasting and dancing get under way. I am given a seat at the end of the high table, elevated, yet separate, so at least this convention is upheld. There is ale aplenty, and soon tongues, belts and minds alike are loosened, so that raucous laughter and loudly recounted tales compete with the singing of the minstrels and the determined playing of the musicians to fill the smoky space. The drums, whistles and pipes struggle to make themselves heard. The food is very fine, and I confess, despite my resistance to such organized jollity, I enjoy my expertly seasoned meat and light, crusty bread. I take some ale, but only a little. I have no wish to lose my wits in such company.

After almost two hours of merriment, when some of the smaller children have fallen asleep with their full bellies, curled up on straw in the corner of the hall, the adults take to dancing. The maids are painfully aware of themselves, torn between their shyness and their desire to make an impact on a possible husband. The young men are equally awkward, but some bolder than others, forgetting how unmanly they might look trotting about to a tune if it means they can woo the girl of their choice. Wives and husbands make the most of a rare chance to enjoy each other without the worry of children or work. The prince dances with the princess, the pair a picture of restrained and courtly elegance. No one dares ask me to dance, and I am glad of that. Another hour passes in this manner. Some of the frailer adults join the infants in belching slumber. Gradually the order of the assembly crumbles so that all mix and talk and joke together, regardless of rank or age. Indeed, I'd wager some are so much in the thrall of the ale they do not know who it is they speak to. In the midst of this muddle, I become aware of a presence by my side and find Prince Brynach has come to stand beside me. A glance tells me Wenna is at the far end of the room, being given instruction on the playing of a lyre. Nesta remains in her seat, watching me.

‘Seren Arianaidd.' He keeps his voice low in an effort to maintain some privacy, but in truth there is too much rowdiness, too much commotion all around us, for anyone to hear our conversation.

‘My Prince.'

‘You are enjoying the feast, I hope?'

‘The food was excellent. The musicians are tolerable. The dancing has provided me no small measure of amusement.'

‘Wait until Hywel takes to the floor.' He smiles. ‘He dances like nothing on God's earth.'

‘I cannot agree. I have seen him dance before. I was put in mind of a bear I once saw goaded into a jig at Brecon horse fair.'

‘And did this bear sing also?'

‘Great heavens, spare us Hywel Gruffydd in song.'

‘I do not have your gift of foresight, my Prophet, but I foretell Hywel in fine voice before the night is out.' He falls silent, then asks, ‘Are you not pleased? I listened to your words, I acted upon them. I have seen to it the vipers of your vision will not prosper here.'

‘You let the vipers live.'

‘Their slaughter would have come at the price of many good men, and they are slippery creatures. I could not be certain I would slay them all. Better this way, I believe.'

‘The slipperiest creature here is a member of your wife's family.'

‘Still you persist in attacking my wife!'

‘The pact with the Mercian Queen was her brother's idea, was it not?'

‘An idea that has spared many men and secured the future of the crannog and the village.'

‘So you trust.'

‘I do. I gave my word, and I have that of the Queen of Mercia. Do you not trust me to govern? Do you not consider me capable of my princely duty?'

‘
You
I know.
You
I trust. Beyond that, I sleep with my blade at my hip.'

He takes in my words and thinks on them for a moment before speaking. ‘That you trust me humbles me, Seren. For when I am in your presence I do not trust myself.'

I look directly at him now and the fierceness of his gaze, the unmasked longing in it, quickens my blood. He lifts a hand as if to touch me again.

‘My Prince, you must not…' I am aghast to feel a tightening in my chest at the thought of his touch.

A roar from the farside of the room heralds the start of Hywel's ale-fueled speech. He has clambered unsteadily onto one of the tables and stands, goblet held aloft, calling on the gathering to listen to him. His hair is even wilder than is normal for him, his bulky frame straining at its seams.

‘Prince Brynach, Princess Wenna,' he bellows, swaying and teetering as he acknowledges them with a dangerously low bow, ‘my Lords,' he inclines his head, ‘my Ladies…' He closes his eyes and smiles as if in rapture. The assembled company laughs. His eyes spring open again, ‘And all you lowly beggars at the bottom of our fragrant heap…' this is met with good-natured booing and hissing, ‘pray, take a moment from filling your bellies,' there is a cheer, ‘slaking your thirst,' this followed by a louder cheer, ‘or putting your hands on the nearest arse!' A comment met with loud laughter and some chastising replies from the women in the room. ‘Take a moment, I beseech you,'

‘Get on with it!' comes a shout from the throng.

Hywel scowls, ‘Stop your noise, and stop debauching for one short minute, is all I ask, you lice-ridden, pox-marked scoundrels!'

‘What happened to “Lords and Ladies”?' someone wants to know.

‘They left hours ago!' shouts a soldier reclining on a bench.

Another puts in, ‘They ran for the door when they saw Hywel get up to speak.'

‘Stop your cursed interruptions!' Hywel roars. ‘Charge your goblets, tankards, beakers, whatever comes readily to hand'—here he pauses to reach out and cup the nearest bosom to make his point. The room fills with laughter again. ‘A toast!' he declares, a little more seriously now. ‘A toast to the finest prince a man ever had fortune to serve. Who has delivered us from war. Who has provided this magnificent feast. Who will, one day, I am certain of it, be an even better swordsman than I am! Prince Brynach!' He raises his goblet, wine spilling from it.

‘Prince Brynach! Prince Brynach!' the crowd takes up the toast and drinks to their savior. And as they do so, all eyes turn to look upon him. And find him standing not with his princess, but with me.

TILDA

Tilda sleeps more soundly than she has done in weeks. Months. Thistle lies next to her on the bed, a furry bolster. Through the window the first light of dawn is beginning to lift the sky, bringing streaks of scarlet and vermillion as it does so. There is a curious stillness to the new day. Tilda gets up and peers through the frosted panes, gasping at what she sees. Snow. Inches deep, come secretly and silently in the night to transform the landscape.