The Winter Witch (24 page)

Had not other events overtaken the matter in both importance and urgency I would no doubt have dwelled upon it. As it is, such a small slight has paled beside the awful truth of what Isolda Bowen is, and of what terrible actions she is responsible for. For as I have had time to think, to examine the events of recent weeks, I have recognized some terrible facts. Not only did she compel, by threat and by cursed magic, Reverend Cadwaladr to further her aims, but I am convinced she was behind the thunderstorm that killed Cai’s cattle. The weather was too extreme, too swiftly changing, to be natural. And I sensed a presence on the mountain that day, an evil presence. I now know whose it was. No doubt she thought to ruin Cai by robbing him of his herd. Then, when she saw he would not be so easily cast down, she lent him money to tie him to her. She is playing with him. She has no interest in him, I see that now. It is the farm she wants, for the well. And the
Grimoire.
My main concern now must be what she may do next. I believe we are all of us in peril on the drove now, for how much easier it will be for her to cause mayhem amid the melee of the herds, away from the watchful people of Tregaron. I must be ever on my guard.

At the same time, there is the practical business of the drove itself to occupy us all. The livestock whose fate lies many miles from here have so far proved easy to herd along. Of course, this may not be the case a few hours from now when they are part of the whole drove. For now they are content to graze in the paddock behind the Talbot Inn. I think Cai is pleased with how I have managed them. Thus far. I confess I am excited about what lies ahead—being in charge of the ponies, traveling farther from home with each passing day, seeing new places, meeting new people. And, not least, the chance to visit Mam. Oh, how good it will be to see her again! It feels a lifetime ago that I sat in the garden in Cwmdu watching her tend the vegetables, or listening to her chat over the fence with our neighbors. I will hold her so tight she will plead with me to be released, but then she will squeeze me every bit as hard.

I have never seen so many people as are come to Tregaron this day. The streets teem with bonneted ladies, squealing children, red-faced farmers, and all manner of persons. Reverend Cadwaladr is holding court in the town square, waiting his moment to bless the drove. How different he looks to the wreck of a man I saw at Isolda’s house. I confess my loathing of him has in part turned to pity. It is clear his actions were driven by fear for his family. Fear of Isolda. How can it have taken me so long to see her for what she really is? My instinct recoiled from her the first time we met, but I thought my feelings were those of a new wife faced with her husband’s beautiful friend. I should have known. I should have looked deeper. Dada would have done. Could it be that she was, in some way, masking her true self, beyond simply presenting herself as a respectable neighbor? Was I, too, bewitched, so that she has only now revealed herself to me because it suits her purpose to do so? For the more I have thought about it, the more I have come to believe that she
did
see me that night, in her drawing room. That she knew full well I was there, and her treatment of the reverend was for me to witness. It must be so, for a witch is visible when witchwalking only to another witch, and such Isolda has shown herself to be.

Mrs. Cadwaladr and her daughters are besporting more ribbons than a Maypole, and clutch parasols designed, it seems to me, with the express purpose of startling livestock. There are stalls selling pies and toffee apples and cakes and ale, so that the air is filled with a stew of smells so savory and sweet my stomach growls at it. Everywhere people stand in animated conversation, about what I cannot imagine. How can they find so much to say to one another? Are they so interested in the condition of the cattle, or the size of the drove? I think not. The snatches of chatter which have reached my ears have been of so little point I wonder that sensible people bother to engage in such nonsense. But then, I confess, I am entirely taken up with my own concerns. Ahead of us lies an immense challenge; one that will either secure the future of Ffynnon Las, or see Cai forced to sell his beloved farm. The drove will take three weeks, if we make good time. We are to hope for fifteen miles progress each day, but expect less. I worry that some of the older mares will suffer at these demands, and some of the foals, too. Cai has promised he will call a rest day if necessary, and that he has chosen a route with particular attention to the quality and abundance of the grazing, so that mares with foals at foot will be able to continue supplying milk to them.

Dai the Forge and Edwyn Nails have been here two nights already, shoeing all the cattle that are to be taken, so that the holding fields outside the town are a shifting mass of black beasts. Cai told me that our newly purchased cattle together with those he is taking for other farmers there will be near 260 Welsh runts, as they are so unflatteringly known abroad. ’Tis a poor title for such valued stock—the English might name them so, but it is these runts that will feed their desire for roast beef for many Sundays to come. For nowhere in England do farmers produce their equal. We may be thankful for the fact, for it is this that keeps the droves running, year after year, taking the prized meat on the hoof to London.

And there will be Watson’s one hundred sheep, bleating and stinking and no doubt giving us all a deal of trouble. And our precious ponies—thirty-five of them, if I include Prince, which I know I must. Cai has patiently described to me the workings of the drove, so that I will know what I am to do. I so want to prove an asset to him. Around my neck, tucked beneath the cotton of my blouse, I am wearing the lovespoon he carved for me. I have never owned such a thing; never had such a gift made especially for me. I can feel the smooth wood warming against my breast. I will admit I was at first alarmed at the idea of the whistle. I am accustomed to being silent. I have never, in all my long years of wordlessness, found the need to make a noise of some sort in place of speech. On first seeing it I feared that equipping me with such an instrument demonstrated Cai’s concerns over my …
lack,
as Mrs. Cadwaladr so succinctly put it. Am I not, then, sufficient as I am? But I know him better now. Had he given it to me on our wedding day, with the whistle already in place, I would have thrown it back in his face. But I am content that the gift shows a thoughtfulness, and a concern for my well-being, which I find … touching. Whether or not I would be able to bring myself to use it in public is another matter! Time, and circumstance no doubt, will tell.

It is not yet nine o’clock but the heat of the day is building. I find a wooden bench in the shade at the front of the hotel and sit. Cai is occupied with the final deals and tasks to be fixed before we leave. For he is not simply a man who will move livestock and sell it at the best price he can secure. He is emissary, taking important letters and documents from the great and the good of this parish to the center of commerce that is London. Some will send deeds of sale or covenant for land or property. Others wish investments to reach the city banks. Still others wish their sealed letters to be placed in the hands of distant relatives, or prospective brides, perhaps. All are entrusted to the
porthmon
; a man of honor, integrity, and worth. And such he certainly looks today. Even though he is dressed in the habitual drover’s garb of stout boots, woolen stockings, tough cord breeches, plaid shirt, and wide-brimmed hat, he has about him the bearing of a man apart. There is something in his demeanor, something in his deportment, that suggests, yes, here is a head drover. Here is someone with whom our livelihoods will be secure. Here is someone who will make something of all our hopes and dreams for the future. When the rains come, as they surely must on any drove at this time of year, Cai will put on his ground-sweeping coat, so that even in silhouette he will be recognizable as a drover. Over days and weeks he will accumulate a patina of grime and a weathering to his skin, but still he will be instantly recognizable as Cai Jenkins Ffynnon Las,
porthmon.

I, on the other hand, may very well draw only gasps of shock or stifled giggles from onlookers. My husband took some persuading that my choice of garments would not lay me open to ridicule. I stood my ground, however, and let him argue so long that he defeated his own objections. I must be dressed for practicality and comfort, not fashion nor acceptability. I must prove my worth to all on this drove, not just him, and to do so I cannot be hampered by ridiculous corsets and skirts. Mrs. Jones and I have been working in secret for some time, so that my outfit would be ready, and so that Cai could not gainsay either its decency or its suitability for the job in hand. My blouse is of soft cotton, the color of ripe hazelnuts, for white would be foolishly difficult to keep clean. I have a second identical blouse in my saddlebag, along with a washcloth; a light chemise that will serve as nightdress or extra layer if need be; a pot of lavender cream for cuts and bruises and to ward off biting flies; and a brush for my hair, which Mrs. Jones insisted I include and which, I confess, may not see a great deal of use! I am wearing a single, specially adapted petticoat, for modesty and comfort. I have not room for another in my pack, so I must look for an opportunity to wash it when I can. It is my skirt that caused Cai to balk, and which now garners curious glances from passersby. The idea for it came to me watching Dai the Forge with his split leather apron. At market, with a deal of mime and insistence, I purchased a quantity of tough brown cotton of the sort used for men’s breeches. Further lengthy demonstrations and false starts allowed me to instruct Mrs. Jones to fashion me a skirt with a divide running the length of it. Either side of this gap the edges are strongly sewn, so that they will withstand weeks of rubbing against the saddle and the pony’s sides without chaffing or wearing through. When I stand, it is almost impossible to detect the construction of this garment, save for it being also somewhat shorter than the norm, as it scarce covers my calves. However, as I move, or indeed when I sit astride, the unusual feature of the skirt becomes apparent. Its divide means it falls into two, wide trouser legs, modest but practical, which is what will prove invaluable in the coming weeks. As a matter of necessity against sun and rain I also wear a black felt hat, its brim broad enough to give shade but not obscure my vision. A leather thong tied from it beneath my chin prevents it blowing off. It is irksome that people feel they have a right to stare and sometimes to pass comment on how I choose to dress myself, but it is not as if I am unaccustomed to being an object of curiosity. At least, in this case, I am become so by my own choosing, and with good reason. It is a small price to pay if it enables me to do my work better.

At last I see Cai making his way toward me through the crowds. His progress is slowed by people stopping him to shake his hand or even touch their caps as they wish him well on his journey. I stand up, smoothing my unfeminine skirt, momentarily ill at ease about appearing plain. He sees me and, noticing my discomfort, I fancy, gives me a warm smile. A smile that says, I care not about the strangeness of your clothes, or the strangeness of your ways; you are my wife, and all will be well.

He is on the point of reaching me when Isolda Bowen steps forward from the throng, firmly setting herself between us. The Cadwaladr women do not stand the comparison well. Nor, I fear, do I. I hasten to build barriers in my mind, as I now do whenever I am in this woman’s presence. I feel her looking at me differently now, or is it only now that I have the truth of her I see her differently? No, I am sure of it, I sense her looking right into me, probing, testing for weakness, like a hungry wolf clawing at the peasant’s door.

“Why, Mr. Jenkins,” says she, a soothing softness to her voice, “you are every inch the
porthmon
. An exciting day indeed.”

“Isolda, it is good of you to come to see us off. And I am pleased to have the opportunity to thank you once again for the loan of your fine horse. It is exceptionally kind of you.”

Kind! I doubt the creature knows the meaning of the word.

“Think nothing of it.” She gives a dismissive wave of a hand. “I’m sure the work will be of benefit to my dear Angel; he loves nothing better than to be occupied. As I have said, I am confident he will go well for you.”

“Having a fit horse will be a godsend,” says he.

God, I venture, has nothing to do with it.

Nor he did, Morgana.

Oh! She is here, inside my head! I hear her words as clearly as if they were spoken aloud.

Get out! I will not converse with you—leave me alone.

I will leave you alone when you leave Ffynnon Las, not before.

Even as she torments me she continues to talk with Cai, commenting on the brightness of the day and the cheerful mood of the well-wishers.

I will be watching you, witch-girl. My eyes will travel with you. Know this, I will make sure that by the time you return from the drove everyone will know the truth of what you are, and your husband will realize the mistake he has made in choosing you over me!

I want to turn and run, to get away from this vile woman, but to do so would color this moment, Cai’s moment. I will not let her spoil it. I will not! I stand my ground, letting my determination show in my expression, filling my head with snatches of Dada’s stories so that there is no room for her poisonous words. Summoning my courage I move forward and take Cai’s arm. He appears a little surprised, but pleased, placing his hand on mine before addressing the crowd.

“I thank you all for your good wishes, neighbors,” says he, removing his hat and effecting a bow. “When next we meet, God willing, I will stand before you with gold in place of beasts, and we shall all face the winter with full coffers.”

There is much cheering and ribaldry. Cai leads me through the archway to the rear of the Talbot and we fetch our mounts. Prince is already wide-eyed, all too well aware that something momentous in his life is about to take place. Angel is chewing at the bit in his mouth producing foam, his ears set back in a warning to all to keep their distance. Still, he allows Cai to spring into the saddle on his back. We trot through the small paddock and into the holding field, where the other drovers are waiting.