The Silver Witch

‘It is true you equip her to be a shaman. A witch. To live apart as you do. To follow the path of your life, and yet…’

‘And yet? Spit out what it is you came to say, Nesta Meredith, before it sticks in your throat and chokes you.’

‘There is a way you can do what is most generous for all concerned in this matter. A way you can make an easier life for the prince. A happier life for the princess. A royal life for your precious child.’

She waits while I sift through the grit of what she is telling me. Of what she is suggesting. My mouth dries at the thought of it. My heart pounds. I pray my face does not betray my anger. My fear.

‘You have come here, to my home, to tell me I should give up my child? Give her up to Wenna?!’

‘Think of it. Do not let your heart rule you, but only think of it. Your daughter has royal blood in her veins. She is of Brynach’s line. You and I both know Princess Wenna will never give him an heir. He adores the child. She is his princess. And my mistress is not as cold as you would have her be. Her longing for a child is only in part to secure her position. She is a woman, and she craves a babe to hold in her arms, to mother. She would take her husband’s child into her home, she would raise her as her own, even as she is…’

‘Even as she is!’ I can contain myself no longer and leap to my feet. ‘In one breath you bid me part with my very heart, and in the next you pierce it with your barbed observations! How could Wenna love a child that is the reflection of the woman who has her husband’s desire, his passion, his love? How could I give up my own blood into that nest of vipers, none of whom would truly accept her as their own, but always see her as something fearsome? Something from another realm altogether. I would not condemn her to such an existence for all the gold and furs and fine silks such privilege could bring. You talk of her birthright, well it is here. With me! She is a born witch, she has the gift of magic in her, even you can see that. And I will raise her as a shaman, which is what she is destined to be!’

Nesta’s face sets hard. Her mouth closes in a firm, thin line. Her eyes are like currents in dough. She looks away. Her shoulders slump. She is defeated.

‘I see your mind is fixed,’ she says quietly. ‘You are not to be persuaded, not even for the sake of the child.’

‘It is for the sake of the child that I refuse such a proposition.’

She nods, slowly. ‘I had hoped to return to my mistress with my task a success.’ She smiles almost wistfully. ‘Imagine how such news as I would take her would gladden her poor heart! She has been a good mistress to me all these years, never belittled me, always treated me with kindness. Affection, even. I had so hoped to bring her joy, to see her happy again.’

‘We are each mistresses of our own happiness. We ought not to look to others to supply it.’

Nesta gets stiffly to her feet. ‘I see that you will not consider the merits of my plan, and it is clear you refuse me not from malice or spite, but for love of your child. I believe you are wrong, and that she would fare better in life were she to take her place with the prince, but I cannot deny your intentions are true. You act as your own conscience bids you.’

‘I do,’ I say, instinctively stepping between Nesta and Tanwen.

The woman picks up her basket and holds it to me. It is made of plaited wicker, with a curved handle, the top narrower than the base, and has a cloth tucked over the contents.

‘At least take this token from me, to know that there is no ill will left after my … disappointment. You may refuse me the status of your equal, my seer, but you will surely not deny we are women both, at the mercy of those we love, working only to protect and care for them. Here, some beer and honeyed bread for yourself and the babe.’

I want nothing from her, but nor do I wish to inflame her dislike of me further. I reach out my hand toward the basket. As I do so, Tanwen stops playing and looks up at me. Her bright eyes are wide and fierce, and as she stares at me I experience a sudden wild seeing. There flashes before my eyes a vision of startling clarity, fleeting, but powerful. I see a scarlet sky, the red of pain, with black tendrils of a monstrous ivy twisting and tightening, robbing the air from the night, bringing death with them. I gasp, and stay my hand.

‘What manner of gift is this? There is agony and death in that basket, wise-woman!’

Her face darkens and she opens her mouth to speak, but her words are silenced by the thundering of hooves as Hywel and a fellow soldier come riding to my door. He springs down from the saddle, surprisingly nimble for one so large. I no longer have a guard watching over me day and night, but still Hywel takes it upon himself to see for himself that I am safe whenever he can.