The Silver Witch

‘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.