The Silver Witch (32 page)

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Christmas morning sees a cheerful sun lifting over the hill behind the cottage, its rays bouncing off the crisp layer of snow that still coats the landscape. Tilda can no longer put off leaving. She picks up the bracelet and slips it into her fleece pocket, zipping it in securely, enjoying the thrill of having it close again. Since the success of wearing it in the garden she has put it on twice more, both times outside, each time gaining a little more control, becoming a little braver, discovering more ways to use the wonderful, inexplicable changes it brings in her. She cannot bear the thought of going anywhere without it, but she knows she is not ready to tell anyone of how it changes her. Not even Dylan. More than ever she wants to know, needs to know who it belonged to. Where it came from. Why she has it. Why it releases what it does from somewhere deep inside her that she never knew existed.

In her bedroom, she stands for a moment in front of the mirror. She realizes she has not exactly dressed up for the occasion, and the thought comes to her that Dylan has only ever seen her in running gear or working clothes. Or naked. She smiles at the thought. On impulse, she undoes her hair from its plait and shakes it loose about her shoulders. It looks fine, but she knows it will be a mess by the time she reaches the Old School House. She turns to her bedside locker and slides open the drawer in it, taking out a small velvet pouch. She hesitates only a moment before shaking the contents onto her hand. The silver hairpin feels cool in her palm. It consists of delicate strands of silver worked into a beautiful Celtic knot. A present from Mat. The last thing he ever gave her. A talisman for their new life in their new home. She has not had the courage to so much as look at it since he died, but now she can. Now feels like the right time to wear it. Deftly, she twists her hair up, threading it loosely through itself, and then securing the updo with the pin at the nape of her neck.

You look okay, Tilda Fordwells. You look okay.

She has already shut down the stoves in the house and studio, so that they will still be going when she returns. She collects Thistle and a tightly wrapped package from the kitchen, locks the back door, and sets off down the hill. Thistle bounds happily at her side. The energetic pace the dog enjoys reminds Tilda how long it is since she has been for a run.

I miss it. But I'd be risking a broken leg in these conditions.

‘A brisk walk will have to do us today, girl,' she tells Thistle, smiling at the animal's antics as she frisks about in the snow.

The Old School House is picture-postcard pretty, its low roof and deep-set windows thick with fluffy snow, and every plant in the garden similarly frosted and sparkling. Tilda feels a pang of guilt at having put her parents off coming. They had been disappointed, but had accepted that the roads were still bad and the weather unsettled. At least she had been able to reassure them that she was spending the day with lovely neighbors, successfully painting a picture of rural friendliness and community spirit to comfort her father so that he wouldn't worry about her. She takes a breath before knocking on the arched front door.

It is Dylan who opens it. He grins at her and steps back to let her into the hallway.

‘Wow,' he says, staring at her. ‘You look … incredible.'

Tilda shrugs. ‘It's my very best duffle coat,' she tells him as she pulls down her hood, though she knows he is not commenting on what she is wearing. Knows that she appears altered in some indefinable but unmissable way.

‘Merry Christmas,' he says, pointing at the mistletoe suspended from the ceiling above them. He takes her in his arms, gently pulling her close for a warm, unhurried kiss. It feels good to be enfolded in such easy intimacy. To be held again. To be wanted.

‘Your hair is different today,' he says, touching the pin that holds it. ‘This is pretty. It suits you.'

She feels no awkwardness at the blurring of the lines: a gift from Mat, a kiss from Dylan. She mattered to both men, and they both matter to her. She is relieved at how natural that progression feels now. She returns his kiss, the two of them only jumping apart at the sound of Professor Williams's voice.

‘Ah! Our guest has arrived. Splendid. A very happy Christmas to you, my dear,' he says, extending a hand and then smiling broadly when Tilda steps up and gives him a peck on his whiskery cheek. When he draws back and looks at her again she sees surprise on his face and remembers her uncovered irises.

‘Happy Christmas, Professor,' she says, taking off her coat. She hands him the parcel.

‘A present! My dear, we agreed not to. Dylan told me…'

‘I know.' She smiles. ‘But I wanted to. It's just a small thing, really.'

The professor looks at Dylan, who gives him an I-knew-nothing-about-it shrug. He takes off the brown wrapping and finds one of Tilda's earlier works, a little pinch-pot, smooth yet irregular, the finished article still bearing the potter's thumbprints, glazed in a deep burnt umber, rich and textured.

‘Well! What a truly delightful thing,' he says, beamimg. ‘Thank you so much. It will take pride of place on my desk. Now do come through to the sitting room, it is warmer in there,' he tells her. ‘It is so very good for we men to have company today, else we might have let the occasion slip by unmarked. As it is, my brave nephew has risen to the challenge of preparing the feast.'

‘Have you been trawling the shelves of the village shop again?' she asks Dylan.

‘I'll have you know I went to the farmer's market for the turkey and veg, and the best baker's in town for the pudding.' He takes her coat and notices her glance at the grandfather clock.

‘It's not working,' she says, a note of panic in her voice.

The professor shakes his head. ‘Would you believe Dylan suddenly found himself unable to sleep through the chimes? They were practically the lullaby of his childhood, and yet now he can no longer tolerate the sound. The poor boy begged me to do something about it, so I've given the clock a week off over Christmas.'

Tilda silently mouths a thank-you to Dylan, who simply shrugs. She reminds herself that Dylan cannot possibly know how much has changed—how much
she
has changed—in a few short days. Not so long ago she would have been nervous about causing the power to fail at the Old School House, but not now. Now she knows she is in control. Knows that it is her choice whether or not to influence such things.

‘We've put up a tree,' the professor explains as he leads the way into the sitting room. Thistle makes straight for the hearth rug where she stands and shakes, sending snow and ice from her fur hissing into the fire. There is, indeed, a Christmas tree squashed into a corner, finding a space where previously there was none. It sports an eclectic selection of decorations, some evidently family treasures, others, Tilda suspects, hastily bought additions. Some rather brash tinsel is draped over the lower branches, and the look is finished off with a glitter-encrusted gold star. The effect is wonderfully homely and unpretentious.

‘Not my forte, I fear,' Professor Williams apologizes. ‘Greta was a whizz with such things, and I'm afraid I haven't bothered much in recent years.'

‘It's lovely,' Tilda tells him. ‘I haven't even put a sprig of holly up in the cottage. In fact, I think Christmas might have passed me by completely this year if I hadn't been invited here.'

‘If you want something to eat,' Dylan tells her, ‘I'm going to have to see to things in the kitchen. And, by the way,' he adds as he reaches the door, ‘our cooker is an Aga—oil-fueled and gravity fed. Doesn't need electricity to run. Thought you'd like to know.'

Tilda is touched by his thoughtfulness.

‘We shall manage without you,' the professor insists, picking up a bottle of sherry from the sideboard. ‘Now then, what can I offer you to drink, and are you keen on games of any sort? I'm afraid I'm a little rusty, but I have been known to play a passable hand of Canasta. And I believe there is a box of Monopoly hiding somewhere in the house…?' He stops, looking at her more closely, and noticing something more this time, something beyond the naked colorlessness of her eyes, making her wonder just how altered she appears.

Eager to smooth over the moment Tilda says, ‘That book you leant me … the one about the myths and legends of the lake…'

‘Ah yes, I thought you might like that one. We are not all about dates and battles, we historians, you know? My interest is in all aspects of the past. Greta being an anthropologist opened my eyes to so many things. History is primarily about people. And people are complicated beings, who lead wonderfully complex lives. A belief system, rituals, magic, things beyond rational explanation … these are as much a part of what has gone before us in this mysterious place as any victorious army or change of political allegiance. Dear me, I seem to be giving a lecture. I do apologize, it's just so stimulating to be in the company of someone with a genuine interest. I am enjoying researching the lake anew.'

Tilda smiles. ‘Have you discovered something more about the woman in the grave? Or about the bracelet?'

‘Not yet, but now that you are here to help, I believe we will make progress.'

‘It would be really,
really
helpful if we could try to find some more answers about who is in that grave, and who the bracelet belonged to.'

‘Excellent!' He snatches up his reading spectacles, fetches two schooners from the sideboard, and quickly pours two generous measures of treacly brown sherry. ‘Here we are, let this be our concession to the festive merriment. Your very good health!' he declares, raising his glass.

Tilda gulps the sticky drink and follows Professor Williams to his desk. ‘I've brought this with me again.' She takes the gold bracelet out of her pocket and puts it on the ever-present map. She is disconcerted to discover how much she hates being separated from it. ‘In case we want to check the design again,' she tells the professor.

‘Splendid. Now, I did come across something the other day … where did I put it? Oh, and you might want to have a look at this.' He hands her a book declaring itself to be
The Anglo Saxon Chronicles.
He talks on as he searches through a pile of papers and volumes stacked on the floor and reaching halfway up the overstuffed bookcase. ‘In there you'll find one of the only mentions of the crannog as inhabited. I've marked the page … Ah, yes, and this might be useful…'

While he digs on, Tilda turns to the relevant entry. ‘This bit here? Yes, I see …“AD 917. This year was the innocent Abbot Egbert slain, before midsummer, on the sixteenth day before the calends of July. The same day was the feast of St. Ciricius the Martyr, with his companions. And within three nights sent Aethelflead an army into Wales, and stormed Breconmere; and there took the king's wife with some four and thirty others.” Okay, Breconmere is one of the old names for Llangors Lake, Llyn Syfaddan being another…'

‘You've been doing your own research, I see. I am impressed.'

‘But can that next part be right? Did the Queen of Mercia really attack the crannog because of a murdered abbot?'

‘That is what is recorded. However, Queen Aethelflaed had been at odds with the
Cymru
, that's the Welsh, of course, for many years. It may be she used the hapless priest's killing as an excuse to cross the border.'

‘And thirty-four people, no, thirty-five, including the king's wife…'

‘In reality more likely a princess,' the professor puts in. ‘We know that the crannog was built for a Welsh prince, a gift from his father, who had a region of his own to the south to worry about. Eager to have his son settled somewhere, I should imagine. And married to someone politically helpful. In such unstable times any manner of alliance that could be formed was worth a try.'

‘So the princess and these few people from the actual crannog, they were taken prisoner. What happened to the others? To the rest of the villagers?'

‘We must assume they were killed in the attack. The settlement on the crannog was set alight, burnt down to the wooden piles and stone base that remain. I should imagine all the dwellings along the lakeside would have been put to the torch also. These raiding parties were not in the habit of leaving anything much aside from devastation in their wake.'

For a moment Tilda is assailed by images flashing through her mind of what such an attack must have been like. Women and children running. People taking to the fortified island for safety, only to find themselves trapped. So many people killed. In a few short minutes, everything gone. And what of the woman in the boat? What of this other version of herself? Had she been one of the survivors?

‘Professor, is there a list anywhere that tells us about those who were taken prisoner?'

‘Not that I have been able to find, though there are some new documents being archived at the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth even as we speak. The collection is being digitalized, so that at the click of a button one can be reading words written over a millennium ago. Astonishing. Truly astonishing.'

The professor pauses as the standard lamp beside him fizzes alarmingly.

No, not now. Steady. Let them work. All I have to do is let them work.

Tilda eyes the bracelet anxiously, wishing she could snatch it up and hold it close, but aware that to do so would look more than a little weird. The bulb in the lamp gives a fat popping sound and goes dark. The rest of the lights in the room, however, brighten once more and remain steady.

‘Now, this might be of interest to you.' Professor Williams lifts up a dusty, leather-bound book and angles it so that the light from the window falls upon the page. ‘I'd quite forgotten I had this until the other day. Written by a fellow called Humphries. Goes on a bit, he was an expert on Ogam text. Not much survives, but he busied himself translating whatever he found. All sorts of snippets. He places this as dating around 914 AD, although I have to say that's probably an educated guess. Ah, here, an entry in the monastic records of that time, curiously not in Latin, for reasons we may never discover. The writer is unknown, but he mentions a feast held by Prince Brynach “… on the crannog of Breconmere, and in attendance was the entirety of the village, for all were made welcome to celebrate their good fortune, and the guest who was honoured for her part in protecting the crannog was the Seer, Seren Arianaidd.” There, you see?'