The Winter Witch (11 page)

Morgana brings Prince to an obedient halt as she slides from his back and hands the rope to Cai.

“Well, then, my wild one,” he says, grinning, “looks like you’ll be putting the dogs out of a job at this rate.”

Morgana shrugs, turns, and begins the walk back down the hill. He watches her go, wondering what other secret talents his wife possesses.

The next day is again fine and dry and Cai and Morgana spend it working with the foals. The better handled they are, the better price they will fetch if he chooses to sell them, or the better brood mares they will turn out to be should he keep them. Morgana is so at ease with the ponies, so gentle with them. He is struck by how quickly she earns the trust of even the flightiest youngster or wariest mare. So engrossed are they in their work that it is twilight by the time Mrs. Jones calls to them from the house, berating them for having gone so long without pausing to eat.

They stroll down across the fields in companionable silence, the dogs wagging ahead, suddenly reminded of their own hunger. Inside they are greeted by mouthwatering aromas and savory steam as Mrs. Jones ladles
cawl
into bowls. There are chunks of warm bread to dip into the tasty stew, and a pitcher of ginger cordial. Cai watches Morgana as she eats her food with such relish, mopping up every last drop of gravy with her bread, saving only the smallest crust to drop to the waiting corgis. The meal is quickly devoured, and the three settle into chairs to watch the fire for a while. Mrs. Jones has her feet up on a milking stool the better to rest her painfully plump legs.

“I did see another frog in the well today,” she tells Cai, who fails to detect anything significant in this.

“What else could you expect to find there? I see them myself most days this time of year.”

“
Toads,
Mr. Jenkins. You do see toads, not frogs.”

“Oh,” he affects mock humility, “forgive my pitiful ignorance!”

Mrs. Jones purses her lips. “You may laugh,
bachgen,
but ’tis not usual to find a frog in such deep water with no bank. They prefer ponds with shallow edges.”

Cai laughs softly. “And what, then, should we read into having such an esteemed visitor in our well?” He turns to Morgana and explains, “Mrs. Jones would have us believe the well has magical properties. You see how it is? A lost frog cannot come hopping by without her reading something meaningful into it. Other than that it was looking for water and found it, see?”

Mrs. Jones frowns. “There is none so quick to dismiss what they don’t understand as those who are afraid of it. And maybe with reason.”

Morgana hears a story behind her words and goes to kneel at the woman’s feet, her head cocked on one side, inviting more details.

“That,
merched,
is no ordinary well.”

“Now, Mrs. Jones, don’t you go filling Morgana’s head with old wives’ tales.”

“Old wives know a thing or two, and you’d do well to remember it,
bach
.” She peers down at Morgana, lowering her voice to a serious whisper. “You know that the house was named after the well, but I’ll wager you don’t know why.”

Cai puts in, “The water looks blue. Blue well—Ffynnon Las. No mystery in that.”

“Aye, the color is pretty, and it is unusual. But so are the meadows green and the pond white in winter—no one thought to name the farm after those, did they?”

“Go on then,” says Cai, shaking his head, “I might as well save my breath as try to stop you telling your tale.”

“Oh, ’tis not my tale. The legend of the blue well is very old. Older than the farm. Some do say ’tis as old as memory.” She gives a shrug. “Leastways it is most definitely older than me.”

“Imagine!” says Cai.

Morgana shoots him a look that says
be quiet
. She takes up Mrs. Jones’s hand and squeezes it, urging her to continue.

“They do say there are some sources of water as have special properties.
Special
. Anyone who drinks the water will know good health. In the right hands, it can effect all manner of cures and give relief from many, many varieties of suffering.”

“Ha!” says Cai. “Magic water, indeed.”

“Now then, did I say magic?”

“You had that look on your face.”

“Tease me all you like, Mr. Jenkins. The power in that well is known far and wide, and all your mocking won’t change the facts, see?”

“Oh,
facts
now, is it?”

“Pay him no heed,” Mrs. Jones addresses Morgana. “There will always be those who don’t want to see. But the truth is what it is,
cariad,
even if it do trouble some.”

Cai opens his mouth to respond to this but thinks better of it. Mrs. Jones, satisfied he has finished with his futile interruptions, goes on.

“Years ago, centuries, mind, the story has it that a holy man passed this way on a pilgrimage. He was not young, and had not lived an altogether holy life, so his health was poor. He was finding the journey a struggle. Well, night was falling as he reached this place, and he decided to set up camp. He went with his servant to fill their goatskin water bottles and came across an old crone sitting by the side of the spring.”

“Witch,” says Cai. “In the story I heard she was a witch, not a crone.”

Mrs. Jones frowns. “I thought you were going to stay quiet, Mr. Jenkins.”

“So long as you are dealing with facts, thought you might like to get the details right, see?”

Mrs. Jones ignores him.

“This …
crone
 … was down on her luck. She greeted the holy man kindly enough and asked him to spare her some food. Just a crust of bread or a handful of porridge oats, see? So she wouldn’t starve. But the holy man said he had none to spare. Well,
Duw,
this made the old woman angry, but she saw the holy man was limping and thought to bargain with him. She offered to cure his affliction, if he’d then give her something to eat. He agreed, and she took some of the spring water and poured it over his swollen leg, and muttered an incantation. And at once the pain eased! The holy man was pleased and fair skipped about, but when it came time to pay what was due he was mean, and handed over only a moldy crust and maggoty cheese. The crone felt cheated. He offered her a blessing to help her on her way. But she shouted at him.

“‘What care I for the blessing of a man such as you?’ she screamed. ‘Call yourself holy, when you’ve no charity in your heart for an old woman? A curse upon you!’ And so saying she scooped up water from the well and flung it over him. ‘Water will be poison to you from this day onward. May you never know good health more!’ The servant made to beat her, but the crone ran away into the night, her aged legs moving swifter than any could match. Well, the holy man left the next day, but he was dead before he reached the coast. They do say he could drink a dew pond dry but never quench the terrible thirst he endured, and that he wasted to nothing.” Mrs. Jones sits back heavily in her chair, nodding in a knowing fashion. “Ever since, the spring at Ffynnon Las has been known as a cursing well.”

Cai yawns and stretches. “A fine bedtime story, Mrs. Jones.”

“It’s as well you have no interest in such things, Mr. Jenkins, else people would be knocking at your door offering money for curses and cures. The owner of the well do wield its full power. Others might seek to use it, but without permission there will be a limit to what they can bring about. The master of Ffynnon Las is the master of the well. Or the mistress, mind.”

Cai laughs. “
Duw,
I’d best put up a sign. We could do with the extra income.”

Mrs. Jones huffs and lets her eyes close. “Mock all you like. Facts is facts. Facts is facts.” So saying she falls silent, her breathing slowing almost at once, so that she is quickly asleep.

On Tuesday morning Cai stands outside the open front door of the house and calls.

“Morgana!” He cups his hands the better to send his voice up the hill, where he is fairly certain she will be hiding, and tries again. “Mor-gan-a!” Nothing. Not the slightest movement or sign of either of the dogs, who are also absent.

Mrs. Jones is already sitting in the trap, basket in her lap. Prince shakes his head to rid himself of bothersome flies. It is barely eight o’clock and yet the sun beats down from a cloudless sky, unhelpfully hot.

“Did you not tell her we were going to market this morning, Mr. Jenkins?” asks Mrs. Jones.

“Aye, I told her.” He feels irritation getting the better of him. If she hadn’t wanted to come she could have said so, he thinks. He catches himself in the impossibility of this but knows that even without words she could have made her feelings plain instead of running off like a child. He steps up into the little cart crossly, causing Prince to stagger for a moment, adjusting himself to the sudden weight. With a flick of the reins they are off, joined in the trap by a tense silence in place of Morgana. Not for the first time Cai realizes how eloquent his wife’s wordlessness is, for the silence that would accompany her would be of a very different quality to that provided by her absence. Particularly when her absence feels like a deliberate slight, somehow.

The road to Tregaron is twisting and narrow, but smooth enough in the dry season, if a little dusty. There is a heaviness in the air today. Beneath his waistcoat Cai’s shirt is already damp, clinging unpleasantly to his back. Mrs. Jones attempts to engage him in light conversation, but he has no heart for it. His humor is not improved by the realization that it matters to him more than a little that Morgana has chosen to stay at home. While he understands her reasons he wishes, just this once, she had considered him before shunning his offer of a trip to market. He wanted her beside him as he arrived in town. He wanted the people of Tregaron to see his new bride, recovered from the unfortunate events of Sunday, sitting prettily in the trap with him, or strolling on his arm. He wanted to watch her browsing through the market stalls, selecting items for the store cupboard and perhaps a treat or two—a ribbon for her hair, or a piece of lace. He wanted to see other men watching her. He could admit it at least to himself now; he was proud of her. He wanted to show her off and now he cannot, and he doesn’t know whether to feel selfish and guilty about that, or hurt and hard done-by. Either way, by the time they pass Isolda’s imposing town house on the square and Prince swings into the paddock behind the Talbot Hotel his mood is blacker than the best bowler hat he is wearing as he always does when there is business to be done.

Mrs. Jones is happy to be released to go about her shopping and Cai pushes the brass-plated front door of the inn. Tregaron has long been known as the main droving town of west Wales, and the Talbot Hotel is its very center. The generous lounge bar sports a fine fireplace with polished settles and tables placed carefully to allow the privacy required if important deals are to be made. Cai greets the barman and asks for a tankard of ale. He watches the foaming beer filling the pewter mug and licks his lips, heat, humidity, and a sour temper sharpening his thirst. There is already a fair collection of farmers halfway down their first pints. Some lean against the bar, others sit in huddles, heads bowed in conversations of the utmost secrecy. Here bargains will be struck and livestock bought and sold without the assistance of the auctioneer. Promises of labor or loans of farming implements will be secured. Here men can talk business, their thoughts flowing freely after a little ale and without the encumbrance of their womenfolk, who will be engaged in their own important matters out in the square. Cai nods to an elderly neighbor before taking a greedy gulp of the strong, dark ale. He wipes froth from his top lip with the back of his hand, lets out a deep sigh of satisfaction, blesses, after all, the absence of female company, and belches tunefully.

“
Duw, Duw!
Sounds like you were in sore need of that, Jenkins Ffynnon Las!” The cheerful voice behind him can belong to none other than Dai the Forge. Cai turns, smiling despite himself, putting down his tankard to shake the enormous hand of the blacksmith. Dai the Forge, as he is known to all, as was his father before him, is a mountain of a man. Standing nearer seven feet tall than six, his shoulders so broad he must step sideways through most doorways, he is perfectly suited for the job he has inherited. For Dai is a drover’s blacksmith. Not for him the delicate business of shoeing a lady’s favorite hack, or trimming the slender hooves of Lord Cardigan’s racehorses. His is a sturdier group of customers, consisting in the main of thousands of pounds of good Welsh beef. However hardy the cattle, they cannot make the three-week journey of the drove without first being shod, every last flighty, horned, muscly one of them.

“Now then, Dai, let me buy you a pint. First of the season.” Cai signals to the barman.

“Well, there’s Christian of you,” says Dai, slapping Cai playfully on the back, momentarily rendering him unable to draw breath. “How’s that herd of yours looking, then, m’n? Ready for the off, is it?”

Cai answers hoarsely, “Aye, they’re right enough. I’ll fetch them down from the hill next week.”

“What date are we off?”

“The last Tuesday of the month. I’ll give you and Edwyn Nails a shout when we’re ready for you.”

“Right you are.” He pauses to receive his beer from the barman, wink his thanks at Cai, and tip most of the contents of the tankard down his throat in a couple of loud swallows. “You’ll be here on business today, then,” he says. He indicates a wiry figure sitting by the far window. “I see your friend’s in.”

Cai frowns. Llewellyn Pen-yr-Rheol is no friend of his, and well Dai knows it. Once occupying the position of head drover, the man is a salutary lesson in what can befall someone who loses the trust of those on whom he depends for his livelihood. Llewellyn becomes aware he is being observed and raises his ale in salute, his smile a thin, bitter thing. Cai inclines his head half an inch but can bring himself to do no more. This was the man who took over the drove from Cai’s father, when the position should have, would have, come to him, had not Catrin died. For no man, not even a widower, can hold the license of head drover without a wife. The
porthmon
must be a married householder of the district, the reasoning behind the rules being that such a man has reason to return. A rootless person, one with nothing to draw him back to the area, might be tested beyond endurance by the heavy purse of money he will receive from the London buyers at the end of the drove. Some of that money will be his, but a sizable proportion of it will belong to other farmers and townsfolk who have entrusted him with their business. A wife and a home stand as insurance against such temptation.