The Silver Witch

We meet at dawn. And what a violent daybreak greets us, the sky streaked crimson and scarlet, as if the day itself is full of pain and rage. It is close to midsummer, so that the night is confined to the smaller number of hours, and we are up from our beds early this morning to lay Hywel Gruffydd in his final resting place. Every man, woman and child has turned out to pay their respects. The procession makes its sorrowful progress from the crannog and along the shore of the lake, coming to a halt but a few strides from my own house. There was much said and many voices raised in the choosing of the site for Hywel’s grave. He lived his life a Christian, and the priest argued he should be given a place next to the church, so that he might be in God’s keeping, he said, and comforted by the sound of the monks’ prayers.

Brynach wanted a warrior’s burial for him in a grand tomb. I told them Hywel did not require comfort but vengeance. On this point we finally agreed. When the punishment for his killer was decided, there was no question of him being buried with the Christians. Their god has not the stomach for the punishment meted out by the Old Religion. The priest backed down quickly enough when he understood what is to be done. What has to be done.

Hywel had neither wife nor children of his own. He saw his prince as his reason for being on this earth. He and Brynach loved each other as warriors, as brothers, and now the prince is bereft. His heart will ache, and there will forever be a space at his table now. When all are assembled at the appointed place, Hywel’s coffin is lowered into the deep wound in the earth that awaits it. The priest stands close and says his words. Many of the women and children weep. Brynach and his soldiers stand steady and quiet but they cannot hide the pain of loss they are suffering. When the Christian rites have been observed I step forward. I am not wearing my ceremonial headdress this day, for the occasion is too somber, too personal. Instead I have dressed in my red woolen cloak, my hood up to cover my hair. I lead Tanwen by the hand, moving slowly so that she can walk the short distance to the grave. She, too, wears a cape of red wool, given her by her father, to match mine, but her hood is down, so that her bright hair gleams in the sunlight, as does the golden torc at her throat. It is fitting that we should act for Hywel together. He loved her, and he died protecting me. She will one day take my place as shaman. There is much she must learn.