The Silver Witch

‘I will have you to protect me awhile yet, Hywel,’ I tell him, placing my hands over his heart, calling on the magic of the lake and the gentle presence of the Afanc herself to come to my aid and rid this poor, dear man of the vile substance that seeks to silence him.

He shakes his head, wildly thrashing from side to side, foam flecking his beard, his eyes, burning, raging against death’s approach. He has been a warrior all his life, and knows nothing but to fight until his last breath. ‘God’s truth! Let that witch be put to death so she may do no more harm. Yet even then you must not turn your back on Wenna for an instant, for she will be ever waiting, dagger raised. The prince needs you. He needs the child. You cannot let down your guard. You must not. Give me your word!’

‘But Hywel…’

‘Your word!’

‘You have it!’

He beats his fist upon the ground, roaring, defying death to the very end. And at the last he does not seek comfort, does not search for pity, but raises his one good hand in a salute and bellows into the fading summer day, ‘Prince Brynach! My Prince! Prince Brynach!’ And even as light of life leaves his eyes his battle cry continues to echo, on and on, around the shores of the lake.





19

TILDA

The day after Boxing Day Tilda stands shivering at the bus stop in Llangors, her stomach turning over as she waits for the bus that will take her to Brecon. She thought of asking Dylan to take her. Thought of asking the professor. Even contemplated seeking out Lucas in case he could help. In the end though, this is something she needs to do on her own. For many reasons, not the least of them being her need to prove to herself that she can.

Don’t need my hand held anymore. A short bus ride, slow and safe, most likely lots of other people on board. Got to be independent. I can do this. I managed in the Landrover.

In fact, when the bus arrives, the only other passengers are two holiday-bored, stir-crazy teenagers no doubt desperate to escape the slow pace of life in the village for a few hours. Tilda buys her ticket and sits at the front, near the driver, silently chiding herself for feeling as nervous as she does, but noticing that she is less anxious than she expected to be. It could be the sedate speed the bus moves. Or the fact that, ghostly apparitions aside, the journey to Brecon with Dylan was manageable. And yet, she knows that in fact it is something else. There is another change. A fading. A lessening. The sharply painful memory of Mat’s death is receding into the past. Her grief for him has become more distant. For a moment this makes her feel sad, as if she is losing the last of him, but the panic passes. It is as it should be. It is time.

The countryside that moves slowly past her window is still snowy, but has lost much of its festive charm. There is a sense of the thick layers over fields and hills shrinking and shriveling, rather than melting softly away. The result is a muddy mess in gateways and on tracks, and gray slush alongside the gritted tarmac of the roads. On the broad oaks, branches poke their elbows through worn, snowy sleeves.

Her second reason for wanting to make this trip alone has to do with her purpose in going to town. The curator of the museum had been surprised to get her phone call on the dot of nine o’clock, pointing out that they had very few visitors or enquiries at this time of year. It had taken some persuading to agree to allow Tilda access to the archives. Most members of staff were on holiday, he had explained, and as this was the quiet season many of the exhibits were being restored or cleaned. Tilda had pleaded her case, telling him of her ceramic art, of an upcoming exhibition, of her urgent need for details and references as far back as possible connected to the crannog. In the end her sincere interest in the subject and her fervent desire to discover hidden facts had appealed to the archivist in him, and he had agreed to her request.

I told him it would be just me. I know if I’d told the professor what I’m doing he would have wanted to come, and I can’t risk the curator changing his mind.