The Silver Witch

A roar from the farside of the room heralds the start of Hywel’s ale-fueled speech. He has clambered unsteadily onto one of the tables and stands, goblet held aloft, calling on the gathering to listen to him. His hair is even wilder than is normal for him, his bulky frame straining at its seams.

‘Prince Brynach, Princess Wenna,’ he bellows, swaying and teetering as he acknowledges them with a dangerously low bow, ‘my Lords,’ he inclines his head, ‘my Ladies…’ He closes his eyes and smiles as if in rapture. The assembled company laughs. His eyes spring open again, ‘And all you lowly beggars at the bottom of our fragrant heap…’ this is met with good-natured booing and hissing, ‘pray, take a moment from filling your bellies,’ there is a cheer, ‘slaking your thirst,’ this followed by a louder cheer, ‘or putting your hands on the nearest arse!’ A comment met with loud laughter and some chastising replies from the women in the room. ‘Take a moment, I beseech you,’

‘Get on with it!’ comes a shout from the throng.

Hywel scowls, ‘Stop your noise, and stop debauching for one short minute, is all I ask, you lice-ridden, pox-marked scoundrels!’

‘What happened to “Lords and Ladies”?’ someone wants to know.

‘They left hours ago!’ shouts a soldier reclining on a bench.

Another puts in, ‘They ran for the door when they saw Hywel get up to speak.’

‘Stop your cursed interruptions!’ Hywel roars. ‘Charge your goblets, tankards, beakers, whatever comes readily to hand’—here he pauses to reach out and cup the nearest bosom to make his point. The room fills with laughter again. ‘A toast!’ he declares, a little more seriously now. ‘A toast to the finest prince a man ever had fortune to serve. Who has delivered us from war. Who has provided this magnificent feast. Who will, one day, I am certain of it, be an even better swordsman than I am! Prince Brynach!’ He raises his goblet, wine spilling from it.

‘Prince Brynach! Prince Brynach!’ the crowd takes up the toast and drinks to their savior. And as they do so, all eyes turn to look upon him. And find him standing not with his princess, but with me.





TILDA


Tilda sleeps more soundly than she has done in weeks. Months. Thistle lies next to her on the bed, a furry bolster. Through the window the first light of dawn is beginning to lift the sky, bringing streaks of scarlet and vermillion as it does so. There is a curious stillness to the new day. Tilda gets up and peers through the frosted panes, gasping at what she sees. Snow. Inches deep, come secretly and silently in the night to transform the landscape.

So beautiful. As if the world has been born again. I have to go out in that.

She quickly dresses in her thermals and running gear, jamming her beanie on. The cottage has become so familiar to her now that she can move around inside with ease even when there is so little light. Despite the weirdness of what is happening to her, Ty Gwyn feels increasingly friendly. More and more like home. Thistle stretches, wags and follows her down the stairs. Tilda pauses to peep through the open door into the sitting room. Dylan is still sleeping on the sofa, all but hidden by the duvet and blankets she found him the night before. The fire in the hearth has gone out, but the little room is still warm. Tilda carefully closes the door, not wanting to disturb him, and heads out through the kitchen.

The snow is the stuff of childhood dreams. Even in the low light it sparkles like sugar and sits fatly on every surface, every tree, every gate and fence post. Tilda can just make out the lake below as she finishes her warm-up exercises and sets off. It is teal blue, silky, dark against the lightening countryside around it. It is not cold enough for ice, and the snow affords a reasonable amount of grip. Even so, Tilda has to descend the hill cautiously, taking care to stick to the road and then to the footpath. Once on level ground she can increase her speed to a decent pace, enjoying once again the rhythm of running, feeling her muscles working, experiencing the glow and the lift that rewards such sustained exertion.

Come on fleet feet. Running on a cushion of snow. Step, push, step, push. Tilda loves to run. Tilda needs to run. I have seriously missed this!

Her footsteps thud and crunch through the virgin snow, each lift of a heel giving a short squeak. Thistle, like so many animals, is made frisky by the fluffy substance she finds herself bounding through. She abandons her customary loping to frolic and leap, breaking away from the path every now and then to run crazy loops across the water meadows. Tilda laughs at the dog’s skittish behavior. Such playfulness is catching, and she stoops to scoop up a handful of snow. Quickly forming it into a ball, she waits until the hound comes close again.