The Silver Witch (41 page)

SEREN

The dream precedes the vision.

In my sleep I imagine I am lying in my prince's arms, in his fine bed, a fire burning in the great hall, with no one to disturb us, no one to tell us this is not meant. Not right. But then there are noises, commotion, shouts outside. The raised voices grow more frightened and more urgent.

I sit up, awake, shaken from my sleep by the sense of menace that had descended upon us. And now, my eyes open, aware that I am in my own small house, my own small fire burnt low, my own small babe slumbering softly beside me, the vision takes the place of the dream. Unbidden and unsought it comes to me, with bright colors and loud clamorings. A seeing as bold and clear as any I have had. Armed soldiers, pouring down the valley pass, encircling the lake, loosing hundreds of arrows toward the crannog. They spur their horses recklessly into the water between the island palace and the shore. Many are cut down by the spears and arrows of Brynach's defending men, but the numbers of the attackers are so great, they are a swarm, endlessly running between the mountains, galloping on, stopping for nothing, so that soon they ride over the bodies of their fallen brothers, over the still-warm horses that lie bleeding in the water of the lake.

I leap to my feet, causing Tanwen to stir, rubbing her eyes to see what it is that disturbs me. The vision has ended, but my heart remains heavy with dread. This was not some shadowy view of the distant future. The threat is real. The threat is now.

I sling my cloak about my shoulders, fastening it with a pin, and take Tanwen onto my hip. Outside, the night is still and warm. The moon sits atop the hills behind us, its silvery beams lighting our way, my own shape described in shadow in front of me as I run to the crannog. To the prince. Already I fear I will be too late. I can sense danger closing in, and soon I know the thundering of an army of warhorses will shake the ground beneath my feet.

The guard on the walkway to the island regards me with surprise as I dash past him, but makes no move to stop me. I run, breathing heavily now, straight to the great hall. Two soldiers stand at the door.

‘Out of my way!' I all but scream at them. ‘Wake the prince!'

These two are not so ready to let a wild-eyed woman run into their master's home, however much they secretly fear me. However much they know about the child that clings to me as I run.

‘Hold fast, Seren Arianaidd.' The bravest steps in my path, his spear angled across the doorway. ‘What is your business with Prince Brynach? Give me a message, and I will take it to him,' he offers, his voice gentle, his aim to placate.

I step closer so that only a hand's span separates our faces when I speak. The guard's eyes waver but they are locked in my gaze. There is nowhere for him to hide.

‘Tell him the Mercian Queen broke her word. Tell him to call his men to arms. Tell him death is coming to Lake Syfaddan, riding on swift horses. Tell him it
is
come!'

He hesitates, for he cannot sense what I sense, cannot feel what I feel. He glances at his fellow soldier and sees fear there. This decides him.

‘Wait here,' he tells me, hurrying inside.

I hear voices, footsteps, weapons being taken up, and the prince appears, his expression grave. He knows better than to doubt me.

‘How long?' he asks me. ‘How long before they are upon us?'

Now that my prince stands before me, my heart aches to think of what lies ahead. Although I cannot accept the thought, cannot allow myself to truly believe it, I know that I have foreseen his annihilation. What words can I offer now? What purpose do I serve if I have failed to shield him from this moment?

He sees what is written in my eyes and need not question me further. He shouts orders to his men, sending them to man the palisades, to rouse each and every one able to wield a sword or loose an arrow. He sends two scouts to ride to the top of the pass and keep watch. He orders the walkway to be chopped, cut asunder.

The door opens again and Wenna steps out, alarmed by the shouts and the seriousness with which her husband issues his orders.

Turning to me, Brynach clutches my arm. ‘Seren, take the babe, leave the crannog. Go deep into the woods and hide yourselves there.'

‘But, my prince…!'

‘I will hear no argument! This is not the moment to defy me.' He closes his eyes briefly, snatching up my hand. When he looks at me again I see the sparkle of tears. ‘Take our child. Keep her safe. For me. And Seren—' he pauses, glancing at his wife before letting go of my hand—, ‘take Princess Wenna with you.' When I gasp he says softly, ‘She is in your care, and you in hers now. Do this for me.'

I nod. I do not trust myself to speak, for my heart is breaking. Brynach kisses Tanwen's pink cheek and then turns and strides away, doing what a prince must do, even when he knows all is lost.

The three of us leave the crannog, as behind us men take axes to the wooden boards. In seconds the link to the shore is gone. Brynach and his men remain on the island, the villagers huddled in the hall, ready to face what is to come. For so long such a tactic has proved effective. Warring parties, opportunist bandits, even roving Vikings have been deflected and defeated in this way. But I know that this time will be different. The force that even now thunders into the neck of the valley is too great. This time the defenses will not hold. I know this, as does my prince.

‘Come!' I bark at Wenna, holding Tanwen close. We set off at a run, but before we have reached the flimsy safety of the woods the earth shakes and we hear the battle cry of our foes as they descend upon the settlement. We keep running. We are nearly to the trees when Wenna stumbles and falls. Looking back I can see she has landed awkwardly, her ankle damaged. She cries out as she struggles to get up. My instinct is to run on, to leave her, to get my child away. But I cannot. I hurry back, and as I help her to her feet we both witness the terrible onslaught of the Mercian warriors. My vision did not lie. The forces sent are more than Brynach will ever have faced before; the odds are impossible for him to overcome. The crannog is soon under a ferocious attack, with the Mercians using flaming arrows to strike at the settlement. I can see our people running to fetch water to dowse the flames, and being cut down by yet more arrows as they do so. I see Brynach leading his brave men. My soul screams out for him, for he can do no more than lead them each to a warrior's death.

As we watch, Wenna cries out, pointing to a small group of riders who have detached themselves from the main body of soldiers and are moving in our direction. I haul her to her feet and we make our unsteady progress toward the shelter of the woodland. Tanwen, unnerved by such torment and destruction all about her, begins to cry pitifully, but there is no time to stop and comfort my poor infant. Even as we blunder on, it is clear we have no chance of hiding before the riders are upon us. I push Wenna behind a blackthorn tree, making her climb in beneath its low branches, its barbed boughs a strong defense. I pass her Tanwen.

‘Take her!' is all I have time to say before I start to run for the lake. My aim is to lead the soldiers away from my child, to divert them, so that perhaps, if we are blessed with the smallest scrap of good fortune, she will not be discovered. To do this I must make myself a prize they will be determined to claim. As soon as I am close to the water I turn and stand. They have already seen me, but I must be certain they are entirely engaged in their dispute with me.

‘What are you waiting for, sons of whores?' I scream at them, throwing off my cape to reveal my hair, striking in the strengthening dawn light, and the patterns on my flesh, so that they might see me for what I am. Shaman. Witch. I take my knife and brandish it, raising my arms. ‘Does the Queen of Mercia suckle cowards at her poisonous breast? Does she feed her men on lies and beer only? What sickly creatures does she dare send to face Seren Arianaidd?!'

There are six of them. Two, those of the hottest blood and lowest belief in themselves, urge their horses on and approach me at the gallop. The first is easy to dispatch, for his horse is a knot of fear and fatigue. I catch its eye and send it a sudden vision of slavering wolves that causes it to swerve at such speed that it falls, landing heavily upon its rider, who does not move again. The second soldier presses on. I wait until he is close, his broad iron sword raised, murder glinting from behind the face piece of his helm. I fight my instinct to move and instead hold my place, only ducking at the last second, using my blade to slice through the cinch of his saddle as I slide beneath his horse's hooves. The animal's first thought is to save itself from a fall, so although its ironclad feet flash about me, none strikes me. As the rider leans on the reins to turn his mount and shifts his weight, the girth gives way under the cut I made and his saddle swings around, throwing the soldier into the reed bed, where he lies yelling, clutching his shoulder. He is no threat to me now. I turn back to the others. Three more come at me, though with more caution and guile than their fallen brethren. There are shouts of ‘Take the witch alive! Rope her!' and ‘She will make a fine gift for Our Lady!' They have made a dangerous decision to try to capture me. If they truly knew me, they would be content to try to kill me only. They circle, then charge, seeking to knock me down. But I am more nimble than any they have encountered before, stepping this way and that, evading their charges. Enraged, one of my attackers swings his sword, aiming at my knife hand. He is rewarded with my blade in his thigh and retreats screaming, his life blood gushing from him, his hopes of home going with it.

On seeing their fellows so stricken the others change their minds.

‘Kill the evil creature!' one yells, and the rest roar in agreement.

I am ready for their charge, but I can do nothing to evade the arrow that is loosed by the archer who sits still and quiet upon his horse whilst the others bluster and thrash about. The arrow that cuts through the moist morning air silent save for its whining song of death. The arrow that, as I leap from the path of the black warhorse, finds the end to its journey deep in my belly. I fall to my knees, dropping my knife to grasp the shaft of the arrow with both hands. I know it has struck a mortal blow, but I will not cross to the Otherworld with the instrument of my enemy's victory in me still. I wrench it from my body and pain sweeps through me like a wave of fire. I am aware of the men coming to claim my corpse, but I will not let them! Summoning my spellcraft, I compel my own fading limbs to raise me up, so that I might stagger into the sacred waters of the lake.

I know she is near. She could not save me this time, for with so many foes near to show herself would have meant disaster for her, but I know she has come to take me with her. The hour has arrived when I shall go to her secret home in the depths, and she and I will dwell there together. As I fall forward into the water the shouts of those earthbound become more distant and blurred. I can feel her beneath me know, gently lifting me, bearing me away from the cruelty of men and the suffering of this life. I move so that I can see the little blackthorn tree. Wenna is still hidden there, my babe in her arms, and I send her a vision and with it my words, speaking directly to her mind, letting her know my dying wish.

‘
Tanwen is Brynach's child.'
I remind her.
‘She carries his royal blood. She is his heir. Love her as such. For his sake, love her!'

And now the cold of the water numbs my pain, and the soft swimming of the Afanc carries me across the lake. No more shall I walk these shores. My prince has gone, and I pray that I will find him in the Otherworld. My babe will live on, and I pray that one day she will return to the sacred lake to find me.

 

22

TILDA

Wet through, Tilda clambers to her feet. She begins to shiver uncontrollably.

Must get back to the cottage. To Dylan. So cold!

She knows her body is in danger of going into shock, but this is something she can deal with. What she must do now is force warmth into her trembling limbs, and the perfect way to do that is to run.

Come on feet, one in front of the other. Footsure. Step, breathe, step, breathe. I can do this. Run, girl, run!

She is soon racing along the rough path, the rain still falling heavily, streaming down her face, making the colors of the day weaken and merge. Suddenly, through this murkiness, she sees something on the track ahead of her. Sitting small and still in the center of the path is a large brown hare, its fur surprisingly dry, its eyes bright and watchful. It does not run away. Instead it appears to block her route, carefully moving from side to side so that she has to go off the track to try to get round it.

‘Let me by, bunny,' she says breathlessly.

But the hare won't get out of her way. Tilda stops and stares at it. Before she has time to question what she is watching the animal starts to grow, and to pulsate, and to writhe and wriggle. Tilda steps back, wondering if near-drowning has starved her brain of oxygen and has sent her mad.

First the Afanc, now this! Am I dreaming?

In seconds the hare has gone, transformed into a strong, striking woman who stands as solid and real as anything else in the landscape.

‘Seren!' Tilda's heart races. She is transfixed, but she is not afraid. Rather, she feels emotion threaten to overwhelm her. Now that she knows she is looking at her ancestor, and after all she has just been through, the connection she feels with the person who stands before her is so powerful it is beyond anything she has experienced before. ‘You came' she sobs at last.

When Seren speaks, her voice is not some ethereal whisper, it is clear and firm, a tone not to be argued with.

‘You must return to the grave,' she says.

‘What?' Despite the doom-laden nature of the statement, Tilda understands this is not a threat. She knows Seren is speaking of the grave at the dig site. ‘No.' She shakes her head. ‘I have to get to the cottage. Dylan is in terrible danger. You must know that.'