The Silver Witch

‘How? How was it shown?’


I shrug, shaking my head, as if I must explain the obvious to a child. Again. ‘There was more than one egg,’ I tell him.

‘And that signifies multiple enemies? You can be certain?’

‘Visions would be of little value were they to mislead, to shroud their meaning in mystery,’ I point out.

‘Yes. Yes, I see. But how can you know from where these other adversaries will come?’

‘The nest within your own fortress clearly suggests your enemy is close to you.’

‘But Queen Aethelflaed is not. She is not of my court. She resides a hundred miles from here.’

‘Then there is a connection. Something, or someone, links you with a chain of ambition to the Mercian queen and her army. Someone you trust.’

‘Someone close to me will betray me?’

‘There is more than one manner of closeness, my Prince, as you are aware. A person might live within the same region or cantref. Or the same crannog, perhaps. Or that person may enjoy your trust. Your friendship. Your love, even.’

Anger flashes across Prince Brynach’s face. ‘You would accuse my wife? Tread with care, Prophet.’

‘I accuse no one. I recount my vision. I interpret its meaning for those not able to read the message themselves.’

‘But there is nothing—nothing—that speaks of the Princess!’

‘There are the facts! Your wife’s family makes no secret of their dislike of you.’

‘Ours was an arranged marriage! They chose to betroth their daughter to me.’

‘In the same way a farmer with a failing farm and one shabby mare puts her to a sturdy stallion from a fine stable.’

‘Now you go too far!’

‘The alliance of your two families benefited Princess Wenna’s kin far more than it did your own! Your father agreed to the match to avoid a possible uprising. Four years ago there were still men who supported her clan. Your father acted to ensure peace. But times changed, allegiances shifted, and Wenna’s family lost their own power. It was she who had the better end of the bargain in the end. And her brother, Rhodri! That creature is more buzzard than man, the way he watches you, waiting for any sign of weakness. He’s not bold enough, or foolish enough, to challenge you directly, and he knows there is no necessity. He will bide his time, and the day will come when you are under attack and he will sit on his sword hand sooner than come to your aid. He will do nothing, nothing but watch and gloat and then take pleasure in picking over your bones!’

‘And you think Wenna would allow this?’

‘What say has she in the matter?’

‘She is my Princess!’

‘And what is a princess for if not to provide her lord with an heir?’

Silence. He has nothing to say to this. For what can he say? I am right. But being right does not make my words any less poison to his ears. He struggles to hold his temper.

‘My wife has my trust. Her family is allied to mine. I will honor that alliance unless or until I am given a reason to doubt it.’

‘Have I not just given you such a reason? Did not the vision open your eyes to the truth?’

‘Some might say the interpretation is … unreliable.’

‘You would prefer to doubt the word of your shaman than hear harsh truths about you wife?’

‘Who is to say they are true? Some people might say that the interpreter has forgotten her art, her gift, her place, and has shown herself to be nothing more than a jealous woman!’

Now it is my turn to have to master my anger. I speak calmly, though I do not feel calm. ‘And anyone who listens to such people, to such talk, is a fool.’

The prince opens his mouth to respond, but I do not wait to hear his argument. I turn on my heel and stride out, away from my camp, away from the light of my fire, away from him. Unaccustomed to being dismissed, but wary of sending his raised voice after me for fear of giving away his whereabouts, Prince Brynach stomps with furious footsteps in the other direction, back to the crannog. Back to his princess.





4

TILDA

Gasping, Tilda steps back from the figure—who is most definitely solid, as her bruised wrist and ribs assure her—and tries to shake the chaos from her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ she splutters, focusing on the elderly man she has just collided with. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

The man smiles at her calmly, a steadying hand still on her arm. He is tall and wiry, with bushy white hair that is partially covered by a tweedy hat. He sports an equally abundant beard and a pair of luxuriant eyebrows. His coat has evidently been chosen for reasons of practicality rather than style. He carries a walking stick with a bone handle carved to resemble a swan, and around his neck hang expensive-looking binoculars.

‘This mist can be confusing,’ he says, his accent lilting and softly Welsh, taking the hard edges off his words and giving the slightest hiss to each ‘s.’ ‘And you were running very quickly.’