The Silver Witch

Without the movement of horses or the common workaday activities, the snow is largely undisturbed, save for the many footsteps of the eager villagers, so that all appears brightly garbed and fresh, without mud, nor drab gray stone, nor weathered stick fence or winter-bare tree to dull the picture. Smoke rises from the hole in the roof of the great hall, and even from outside it is possible to breathe in the sweet aroma of the roasting hogs within. I feel disquieted as I pause before entering, though I am uncertain as to the cause. I know I will face Nesta and Princess Wenna, and neither will be pleased to see me. I know that I must tolerate the unwelcome company of Rhodri and his pimpled son. I know also that I will be in the presence of my prince. I fear that this last disturbs me the most.

Inside the hall all is color and noise. The fire at the center has constructed over it two great spits, turned by damp-shirted boys who labor diligently to ensure the even cooking of the pair of pigs that will feed us all today. For a victory in battle a steer might have been slaughtered, but however festive this event, it is still midwinter, with harsh months ahead, and a few promises do not warrant the same jubilation as a triumph gained by bloody fighting. Nonetheless, many here will be more than satisfied to eat good meat for once. The women have turned out in their finest clothes, with all manner of baubles and geegaws pressed into service to dress up a tired kirtle or pinafore. The men have scrubbed themselves to a ruddy shine and all wear anything that might be classed as a weapon. For whose benefit this mummer’s attempt at a show of might is made I am not clear. Their own, I must assume. A top table has been set, with chairs and places ready for our noble family when they see fit to arrive. Down the side of the hall are benches and low tables for the lesser mortals to sit at and take their food and drink. At the far end of the hall is space for the musicians and dancing that will come later. Children dart excitedly between the adults, and there is an air of cheerful expectancy and general goodwill. I am courteously greeted and acknowledged by those who see me. They do not count me friend, for they are too afraid of what I am and what I do. Rather, they see me as a useful asset; one who might divine disaster, so allowing it to be avoided. They know I travel to places they cannot, and that frightens them. Yet at the same time they are pleased to have me act on their behalf, to risk my soul, my safety, for their protection. Do they believe I care for them, as their milksop priest would have them believe he does? He readily professes God’s love for them and his own as if they were the same. He entreats them to love one another, to forgive their enemies. I was taught to use my skills against anyone who would declare himself enemy. Forgiveness is for mothers of small children, for wronged wives to give and petty thieves to receive. It is not for rulers or warriors. I do not love mankind. I cannot view the herd as any more than that. I keep my love for those deserving of it, and they are few enough.

One of the minstrels takes up a ram’s horn and blows a long, clear note. Prince Brynach and his party are come. A cheer, hearty and sincere, greets him as he enters the hall, the princess on his arm. They process toward the top table, followed by Rhodri and Siōn, his lickspittle son. His loyal swordsman, Hywel is here, of course, though he does not look at ease with such formality, forced as he is into an uncomfortably tight tabard. Following on, Nesta basks in her mistress’s position. How secure does she feel in that, I wonder? The prince pauses when he draws level with me.

‘Seren Arianaidd,’ he nods, and I bow low. He reaches out and takes my hand, bidding me rise. There is a sudden hush. Has he forgotten where he is? Who he is? A prince might take the hand of a highborn lady, perhaps, such as the wife of another prince, or a relative of his own wife, but not my hand! I am not only a woman of no rank, I am Prophet and Witch. To touch me is to connect with all those dangerous and magical things that I hold within me. Is this a deliberate crossing of a well-guarded boundary, or simply a mistake? I am unable to decide. ‘We are honored to have you as our guest,’ he declares, not only to me, but to the whole of the hall. It is clear he is making a point of underlining his allegiance to me. Of my importance to him. He turns to address the gathering, and still he holds my hand! Beside him the princess tenses but does not otherwise let her thoughts show. Nesta purses her lips. The prince raises his free hand for quiet, but this is not necessary. An astonished silence has already filled the great hall. ‘This day would not have come about were it not for the wisdom of our Seer. It was her vision that prompted me to take action. Her seeing told of the downfall of the realm, of the destruction of our crannog. I heeded her warning. I sought counsel with my advisors’—here he pauses to incline his head at Rhodri, who is already puffed up like a bullfrog—‘and we found a path to peace. Thanks to the skills of our Prophet we have arrived at this moment without bloodshed.’