The Silver Witch

We lie in a tangle of limbs, my prince’s lean and muscular, my own lithe and pale. We are twisted as ivy through oak. Brynach has added a fine fur to my bed; a fur from a far-off land, the pelt of an animal I have never seen and will never know. I am grateful for the comfort it affords me now. It is noon, near enough, and the door to my little home is propped open to allow in the soft summer breeze with its scent of meadow hay, and the familiar voices of the waterbirds. Of late, I have submitted to a slowness that at first was frustrating and bewildering. I have come to see that nature has her own notion of what is best for me now, and I am in no position to argue.

‘Are you thirsty?’ Prince Brynach asks me, leaning over to smile down, studying my face, now my throat, now the curve of my shoulder.

‘I am not. I wish only to stay here and watch the sun fall behind the mountains.’

‘Are you hungry?’ he asks, running his hand over the impossibly full curve of my belly, stooping to kiss the taught skin, following the now-distorted lines of the drawings on my flesh with his mouth.

‘I am not, though I know you would feed me six times a day like a farrowing sow if you had your way.’

He smiles at this. ‘The sow is sensible. She knows she cannot grow her young without sufficient fodder.’

I laugh. ‘One look at the bulbous thing I am become will tell you I have allowed neither myself nor my unborn to go without.’

‘Young princes grow large in the womb. It is often said.’

‘And young witches too. Though this is not often spoken of.’

He tilts his head. ‘Will our child be a boy prince or a girl witch?’ he asks. ‘Tell me, Prophet, what do you see?’

‘I see that my baby likes to keep secrets. Though one thing is certain, I will give you no prince.’

His face clouds, but I speak only the truth. Whilst he has been as good as his word and made our love known to all, he remains married to Wenna. I am not his wife. Our child will be a bastard, and never a legitimate heir to his realm. And my vision remains true: the princess continues to be childless. How she must despise me now. Where I might have been tolerated as an amusement for her husband, now I am a threat to her position, her marriage, everything. There have been no further attempts on my life. It was many weeks before Hywel was freed from being my protector, and only then because the prince had issued a declaration condemning my attackers, swearing vengeance should anything more happen to me, and letting it be known that I would always be guarded. I have found it irksome, these past months, to forever have a shadow, however they tried to keep a respectful distance. I begged Brynach to take away whichever trusted soldier he sent, but he would not hear of it. If he feared for my safety before, he has become even more determined to have me protected every minute of every night and day since I told him that I am carrying his child.

I attempt to sit up, my movements clumsy and awkward. Brynach offers me his arm but I wave him away, turning onto my knees to right myself with much puffing and little dignity. ‘I can manage,’ I tell him sternly. ‘Though I shall be glad of the day when I no longer lumber and lurch. I cannot so much as gather wild garlic or pick mushrooms in this condition.’

‘How can you tolerate such restrictions?’

‘Do not mock me, my prince. They may seem trifles to you,’ I say, pulling my kirtle over my head, dusting myself down and slipping my swollen feet into my deerskin boots, ‘but I am unaccustomed to being so…’

‘Fat?’ He pretends seriousness but only succeeds in doing so with difficulty.

I scowl. ‘I am able to throw things still,’ I warn him. ‘My aim remains good.’ I move to lean against the door frame, my eyes shaded against the sunshine, taking in the prettiness of the day outside. The lake shimmers. A lanky heron stalks fish in the shallows. A family of young grebes swims past, heads nodding in their distinctive, comical manner. Brynach appears at my side. He starts to speak, but the sound of approaching horses stops him. Two riders draw near. We recognize both at once: Rhodri and his green son, Siōn. They are dressed in their habitual finery, even though there is no one who cares here to see it.

‘Good day to you, Prince Brynach,’ the princess’s brother hails his master cordially, bowing elaborately in his saddle, yet treats me as if I were not visible. He succeeds in deferring to his prince whilst wordlessly insulting me. Such subtle talents demonstrate skill born of a lifetime of diplomacy. ‘And what a very fine day it is.’

‘A fine day for a ride out,’ Brynach agrees, pointedly slipping his arm around my waist. The action is not lost on his brother-on-law, but he masters his displeasure and conceals it well.