The Winter Witch (12 page)

Llewellyn had been quick—a little too quick, in the opinion of many—to step into the position and take on the responsibility. He was not well-liked in the community, and there were those who voiced their doubts about his suitability for the task. But time was short, and many were dependent on a successful drove to survive the coming winter. Llewellyn Pen-yr-Rheol had been out to impress, to make a name for himself, from the start. He had borrowed heavily from the Tregaron bank in order to buy huge herds, resulting in the biggest drove anyone could remember seeing. Caught up in the atmosphere of opportunity and prosperity lots of farmers came forward to request their own cattle be taken to London as well, risking everything on the drove, entrusting their families’ security to a man who, up to this point, few had found a good word for. Cai well remembered that drove setting off, and how plainly Llewellyn had enjoyed his newfound status. The man had even made a point of saying how, on his return, with his pockets full, he would make Cai an offer for Ffynnon Las. The idea of selling his beloved farm, his father’s farm, to such a snake of a man provoked fury in Cai, but so beaten down with grief was he that he feared it might, after all, be the only sensible course of action left to him.

Llewellyn’s drove had made good time, and reached the fattening fields with few losses. Fair prices had been reached for all the stock, and celebrations were already under way in the town when news reached the revelers of disaster. On his return journey, Llewellyn had been robbed of all the money he had made—his own, and everyone else’s. He had been set upon by bandits crossing the Epynt, left with a cracked head in a shallow ditch, not a penny remaining. After the shock and rage had died down, and after fruitless efforts had been made to find the perpetrators, the townsfolk had, in their despair, turned on Llewellyn. As head drover, it was his responsibility, and his alone, to see that everyone’s money was delivered to them. Why had he seen fit to ride home unaccompanied? Why had he not traveled by stage? Why had he not hired men to protect him and the funds? Rumors began to circulate of gambling and debts, and the possibility that he might never have been robbed at all, but somehow squirreled the money away for himself.

For all his loathing of the man, Cai doubts this. If he is sitting on a fortune he hides it exceptionally well. When he looks at him he sees someone who aimed high and fell low. His body is so thin, so insubstantial, it is as if he is being eaten away from inside by his own failure. Despite no longer owning so much as a herd, much less a farm, he continues to wear the garb of the drover, with long, ground-sweeping coat, and broad-brimmed hat. Whereas on Cai this looks workmanlike and tough, Llewellyn gives the appearance of a ghost of a man with barely sufficient strength to support his own weight. And he is not a man capable of hating himself, so that he has turned his hatred outward, first to his poor wife, who regularly sported a black eye, then his teenage son, who left home vowing never to return, and ultimately to his successor, Cai. He makes no secret of the fact that he doubts Cai has the ability to head a successful drove. He tells anyone who wants to hear it, and plenty who do not, that he is too young, too inexperienced, and will lead them all into ruin.

A small part of Cai fears he may be right. Fears that what he sees before him is his future. The town cannot stand a second failed drove. All the risks—bad weather, disease, cattle rustlers, stampedes, unscrupulous merchants, injuries, and loss—all must be planned for and overcome. He must not fail. He knows he let the farm slip when Catrin died. It has taken time for him to rebuild his own herd, and to rebuild himself, to make both ready for the coming challenge. Two seasons he neglected the farm, and financially he has not yet recovered. He needs this drove to be successful as much as anyone, to secure the future of Ffynnon Las. A future for himself and Morgana.

“
Duw,
I think he wants to talk to you, Jenkins,” says Dai the Forge.

Llewellyn gets unsteadily to his feet and crosses the sloping flagstone floor. Cai straightens, putting down his tankard. The older man comes to stand uncomfortably close. When he speaks his voice is as reedy and thin as his physique.

“Well, there we are then, our honorable new head drover. What a fine
porthmon
. A man to be trusted, see?” He turns to address the room. “Wouldn’t you all trust such a fellow, with his fine hat, and his gold watch at his pocket, and his new wife, bought in special for the purpose.”

“Hold your tongue, Pen-yr-Rheol,” says Cai. He knows he must not rise to the bait, but already his grip on his temper is slipping.

Llewellyn waves an arm expansively. “Did it for the good of all, see? Found himself a wife just so as he can head the drove and keep all your lovely money safe. Well, there’s thoughtful, isn’t it?”

“You’re drunk. Get yourself home.”

“Drunk, am I? And what’s that in your tankard, then? Tea? You set yourself up very high and mighty, Cai Jenkins. Just watch you don’t fall. ’Tis a long way down.”

“You should know.”

“Aye, I do know it well enough. Oh, don’t look at me that way! I only speak out because I care about you. Your father took me on my very first drove, did you know that? A fine man, he was.” He pauses, swaying, a nasty grin rearranging his features. “Good job he’s not around to see how you’ve let Ffynnon Las go, mind.”

This is too close to a nerve for Cai, who draws back a fist but finds its trajectory blocked by the bulk of Dai the Forge.

“Now then, Llewellyn, m’n. No need for that sort of talk,” he says, gently but firmly turning the teetering man around and pushing him toward the door. “Go and find yourself a shady spot. Sleep off some of that ale.”

Llewellyn allows himself to be guided away from Cai, but calls back over his shoulder as he leaves, “We’ll all be watching you, Cai Jenkins. The whole town’ll be watching you. You think you can be the man your father was? You want to be head drover, then? Well good luck and welcome to you,
bachgen,
you’ll need every bit of it!”

*   *   *

Early this morning, from my lofty hiding place I watched Cai and Mrs. Jones down in front of the house, trap ready, dressed in their market day best. I heard my name called, but the word was snatched away by the mountain breeze. Moments later the clip-clop of Prince’s hooves echoed up the valley as he conveyed his grumpy passengers toward town. Let them go without me. I have no wish to be paraded in town as I was at chapel. Who knows what further humiliation might await me? If there is the slightest chance I might have to endure another moment in the company of the Reverend Cadwaladr I would sooner not risk it. The day is too bright, too golden, to sully with the company of strangers. I would so much prefer to be here, listening to the heartbeat of the hill.

Up here, in the high pasture, I have found a perfect spot. A shallow dip in the ground worn by years of sheltering sheep. To one side are three boulders, smoothed by the weather, and leaning over the top is a sturdy blackthorn, its low, twisted branches and tough leaves providing shade. If I crawl forward and peer over the rim of this grassy bowl I can observe all that goes on at the farmhouse below without fear of being seen myself. Today the corgis have joined me. Bracken fidgets, and I stroke the little dog’s dense copper fur, soothing him, and he relaxes once more, stretching out to rest his nose on his white paws. Behind him Meg yawns lazily. I smile at them.

We three will not be going to market today.

Bracken responds by beating his bushy tail lazily against the mossy ground.

I imagine how Mam would scold me to see me lying here instead of setting off with a basket on my arm and coins to spend like a good wife should. I roll onto my back on the warm grass. The fractured sunlight that the blackthorn allows dances on my closed lids and makes me drowsy. Here, safe, free, away from people, where nothing is expected of me, I can consider things with a steady mind. And what I must consider, while I can put my best wits to the subject, is indeed not a
what
but a
who
. Reverend Emrys Cadwaladr.

I still see clearly the expression on his face as he reveled in my humiliation at chapel. It is as if he instantly judged me, the moment he met me, judged me and found me wanting. His sermon was vague enough—I cannot say that any of it might be directed at me, and yet I feel that his disapproval, his anger, they were meant for me. I cannot explain it properly yet. I know only that I have made an enemy without even trying. I cannot believe he was able, in that brief introduction, to detect that there is something … different about me. Something that, I confess, no preacher has ever been comfortable with. What puzzles me most, however, is that I lost my singular ability to be in another place, to travel in my special way in order to escape a situation not of my liking. I have been doing it all my life, and yet at chapel I was utterly trapped. I had lost the gift for witchwalking.

I have only ever in my life known one person other than myself who could witchwalk. Dada. I remember the first time he put a name to it. I did not realize then that this was something other people could do, but thought it peculiar to me. It was spring, I recall. I was not more than four years old. We had been to Crickhowell, I forget why. Mam was not with us, but this was not unusual. Often Dada and I would set off on errands together. Errands which, more likely than not, would end up at the White Hart. Dada sat me outside on a bowed wooden bench and bid me wait for him. I quickly grew impatient, but would not think of disobeying my father. I had been told to sit and stay, and sit and stay I would. At least, in body. I remember as if it were days rather than years ago, how my eyelids grew heavy and drooped, how the rough stone of the inn wall pressed itself through the thin cotton of my dress against my back. I wished I was in Spencer Blaencwm’s hayfield, playing with his collie puppy. I wished to be there and wanted to be there and thought of being there and then, in less time than it takes for a bumble- bee to flap its wings, I was transported to that very place. The tall grasses and feathery fescues tickled my bare arms as I ran. I called the puppy, in my high, clear child’s voice, called him until he appeared. And together we skipped and jumped through the flowering meadow, two young beings enjoying the late spring sun. And then I became aware of Dada’s voice, urgent and cross, and his hands on my shoulders. I remember the confusion of that journey back to myself, how everything seemed to turn in on itself. And then I was outside the inn once more, and Dada was gripping me tight, looking at me long and hard. He said nothing more until we were away from the curious ears of his fellow drinkers. Striding home he had asked me where I had been, and I had told him.

He nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Witchwalking is a serious business, Morgana. Stray too far, stay too long, and you might never find your way back. You remember that.”

And I did remember it. I do. Even now I am aware of my limitations, of times when I have touched the fringes of danger, almost going beyond that point of no return.

My daydreams coupled with the heat make me lethargic and slothful so that I am soon asleep. When I awake, the sun has begun its descent. Groggy from our slumbers, and hot despite the shade, the dogs and I stumble from our den and walk down to the house. There is not a whisper of a breeze now, and the air has become heavier, as if thunder might not be too many days off. I hurry to the well, drawn to the shimmering water as the dragonflies that flit about the small plants which surround it. I sit on the stone wall and lower my feet into the pool. The water is blissfully cool and I begin to come to my senses properly. I am on the point of going indoors, mindful of the fact that Cai must be making his way home by now, when a coldness not caused by the water chills my body. I hear hoofbeats upon the dry road heralding the approach of a small trap or cart. At once I know it is not Cai returned, but someone else. Someone who has the ability to inspire unease in me even before I can see them. I climb from my perch and turn, shielding my eyes against the sun to try to make out who it is. I see an unremarkable grey mare harnessed to a modest but good quality gig. As if from nowhere a cloud passes in front of the sun and in its shadow I can clearly discern the solid, unfriendly form of Reverend Emrys Cadwaladr.

6.

Both dogs stand beside me, clearly agitated by the man’s presence, as am I. What can he want of me? Was it not sufficient that he see me humiliated in front of all our neighbors? He must know he will not find Cai here on market day, so why has he come? Why would he wish to see me alone?

He pulls the mare to a stop and ties the reins, casting about for signs of anyone other than myself. Quickly deciding that there is no one, he does not bother with so much as the pretense of a smile, nor with the formal pleasantries of greeting. Such behavior would be false. He and I both know it. Whatever performance he might put on for his congregation, it was plain to me upon our first meeting that he has taken against me. My sickness in the chapel was brought on by him, I am certain of it. And the nauseating smell, though fainter now we are outdoors, follows him still. I am on my guard. Bracken rushes about, barking. Meg stays close, her lip curling to reveal sharp, bright teeth as the minister draws nearer.

I stand still, steady. I will not be intimidated by this preacher. This is my home now.

“Well,
merched,
” says he, “it is good I find you alone. It is as I hoped. What I have to say to you would best be kept between us. Of course, how you choose to act will determine whether or not the content of our conversation remains private.” He gives me such a look of loathing as I have never received before. Truly, I must disgust him. He speaks in what is, at least for him, a low voice, though there is no one to overhear us.

“You are not welcome here. I know what you are.
I know
. I have sought God’s guidance on the matter. Would it be un-Christian to shun you, to denounce you, even? I have prayed. I have wrestled in my mind with the principles at stake, the case for and against. What is right, and what is against God. I have also, make no mistake, taken into consideration your husband. It is clear to me he is blinded by his obvious infatuation with you, enchanted by your youthful appeal. Bewitched, one might almost say.” At this he allows himself a slippery smile. “But then, he is a young man still, widowed, and in need of a wife. I cannot condemn him. Nor do I believe him to be aware of your true nature. Of what you are. To publicly declare the truth, what I know to be the truth, well, it would mean ruin for him. He would be finished here. Forced to leave, I shouldn’t wonder. Leave Ffynnon Las, give up the farm, everything…”