The Winter Witch (3 page)

Morgana looks at him, her dark eyes wide and slightly fierce, and her question as plain as if she has spoken the words aloud.

“Be at ease,” Cai tells her. “I will stay late in the bar, see. I will not … disturb you.”

She nods and lowers her gaze. He nods, too, even though she is not watching him, but is busy lifting the lid on her crate. He peers over her shoulder and is surprised to see that the box contains books.

“Oh, you can read?” He colors at the expression his question draws from her. “Of course, why not? And English as well as Welsh, I see. Very good. Yes, that’s very good.” He backs away, relieved to be able to leave her, already anticipating the further relief a tankard of ale will bring him.

*   *   *

He closes the door behind him and at last I am alone again. His earnest good intentions tire me. Mam would say I should be grateful, should be pleased to have a considerate husband. But I am not pleased. I do my best to keep my inner turmoil from revealing itself to others through my countenance, but it must surely be discernable, at least to him. And here I stand, trapped in this room, a bride alone on her wedding night. He has assured me I will not be
disturbed
. For that much I am grateful. What does he expect of me? Tonight the company of men contents him. I cannot convince myself such restraint will continue once he has me installed in his own home.

I shall look at Dada’s books to distract myself from my situation. There are two candles, and still some light from the fading day. He was surprised to discover the contents of my crate. He draws the conclusion that I am able to read, and it surprises him. Indeed I can, though I am less able to write. Does he, too, consider me simple? Would he have married a simpleton? I must think not. He did appear pleased to learn I am not entirely without schooling. I was permitted to attend school for a while, and I have Mam to thank for that, as for all else. It was she who insisted I be given a place at our local elementary school.

“But, Mrs. Pritchard,” the weary schoolmaster, Mr. Rees-Jones, had attempted to dissuade her, “surely the girl cannot be expected to learn, given her … affliction.”

“Morgana is not afflicted, sir. Only silent.”

“My point exactly. If she cannot form the sounds of the letters, how can she learn them? If I cannot hear her read, how can I correct her? If she cannot answer questions, how can she learn?”

“She can listen, Mr. Rees-Jones. Is that not how Our Lord’s disciples learned?”

He had offered no response to this save a pursing of his thin, dry lips. I was given a place, in as much as I was permitted to attend. That was the extent of Mr. Rees-Jones’s willingness to accommodate me. My seat was at the back of the schoolroom. I was equipped with neither chalk nor slate and never instructed in the art of writing. I was, however, allowed to listen, and to let my eyes follow words on the page of any book not already taken. I listened and I watched, and slowly the patterns on the paper began to reveal their mystery to me. How I longed to know their secrets. Oh, what joy that would have been. To be able to enter the minds of others, to hear their thoughts as clearly as if they were whispering in my ear. Not minds formed from a lifetime of working the fields, nor dulled by the noise of the loom, but higher minds. Minds given to ideas and imaginings beyond my small world. Mr. Rees-Jones cared not what progress I did or did not make. He had, ’tis true, no satisfactory way of measuring it, after all. But Mam saw it. She watched me curl my feet beneath me on the rug in front of the fire and read by the light of the flames. She witnessed my quiet concentration as I followed what was written and turned each page with reverent care, even though I had to struggle to decipher what was there.

“Morgana,” she once said, “I declare the only time I ever see you still is when you have a book in your hand.” And she smiled, pleased at my modest achievement. Pleased at such a normal talent. Pleased, I suspect, that she had been proved right.

Alas my schooling did not continue long enough for me to complete my learning. The schoolmaster’s tolerance of me, it transpired, was a fragile thing. One dark winter’s day when the snow lay thick on the ground, shortly after my tenth birthday, a new boy joined the class. His family had come recently into the area, his father being a well-regarded cattleman brought into the employ of Spencer Blaencwm to tend his herd of Pembrokeshires. Ifor was his only child and had clearly been indulged in all manners possible every day of his life. His body was plump with these indulgences. Beneath his garish ginger hair his face was round and red, his expression permanently expectant, as if waiting to see in what ways people might please him next. Being new to our school he encountered what must have been unfamiliar hostility. The other children disliked his overfed appearance, his self-important bearing, his evident belief that the world existed for his advantage above all else. For all their showering him with gifts and pleasures, his parents had failed to furnish him with the ability to make friends. Adrift in the choppy waters of the schoolroom, bewildered by the lack of interest he was shown, Ifor resorted to selecting a target for abuse; a child who, in his opinion, would best serve to reveal himself in a good light. For his purposes this required someone more an outsider than he. Someone apart from the others. It was his misfortune, as much as my own, that his eye lighted upon me.

For a while I endured his jibes and sneers without response. It was not, let it be said, the first time I had encountered such treatment. People fear what they do not understand, and that fear can make brutes of them. Ifor, though, had not the wit to be frightened. Better for him if he had. Each day he prodded and poked and jested at my expense. Each day he won an inch more ground in his battle for position in the class. And each day my patience grew thinner.

On that winter morning, when a weak sun glowed dully in a colorless sky, Mr. Rees-Jones sent us outside for some air and exercise to quell our restlessness. Ifor seized the moment. He was seated on a low bench beneath the schoolroom window, a thick muffler making him look even fatter than usual, his plump backside spreading widely on the snow-dusted seat. He called out to me, a sneer already arranged on his face.

“Don’t make too much
noise,
Morgana. Mr. Rees-Jones doesn’t like
noise,
doesn’t like
talking
. Oh! I forgot—you can’t talk, can you? Too stupid to speak.”

One or two of the other children began to smile, pausing in their games to watch the fun. Fun made at my expense.

“Sshh, now, Morgana!” Ifor grew bolder. “You are disturbing everyone with your silly chattering. What’s that you say? It can’t be you because you are too dim to speak? Dim and dumb! Dim and dumb!” he chanted, his cheeks flushing. “Morgana Dim-and-Dumb, that’s what we should call you. Stupid Miss Morgana Dim-and-Dumb!”

On and on he went, the chant gathering strength as others joined in, relishing the cruel song so that the air was soon full of the sound of their mocking. And Ifor’s eyes grew brighter, his chest puffed up with pleasure at his own cleverness. It would not do. Really, it would not.

I wanted to be somewhere else. I might have chosen to let my eyelids fall, to let the voices grow distant, and to send my mind somewhere quiet and free. But I did not. Not on this occasion. This time my anger grew inside me, built into something hard and fierce and hot until it must come out or else I would be burned up by it, consumed by it completely. I breathed in, feeling the breath fuel the flames of my fury. I faced my tormentor, my eyes wide, holding his own gaze, a gaze which faltered as it glimpsed the anger within me. I did not once look away from him, not when the heavy snow on the roof above where he sat started to tremble, not when the other children noticed and fell silent, not even when, with a brief rumble and a swoosh, the snow slipped from the tiles, hurtled to the ground, and landed squarely upon Ifor, covering him entirely. Now the silence was broken by gleeful laughter, and the children pointed and chortled at the wretched boy—the snowboy, for such he was now. He struggled and with a wail emerged, snow clinging to his clothes and caking his eyelashes. The laughter increased. He looked wonderfully absurd, standing their wailing like an infant, the tables turned so that he was the object of ridicule. Now he could see what it felt like.

Of course, the noise brought Mr. Rees-Jones running. He threw wide the door, halting abruptly on the threshold, taking in the snow-encrusted boy. He looked first at the other boys and girls, who fought to stifle their hilarity, and then at me. He narrowed his eyes in a way I did not care for. Clearly, he did not care for the manner in which I regarded him either. He had been reluctant to admit me to his precious school in the first place. As the months had passed he had became increasingly intolerant of my presence, and my conflict with Ifor did nothing to improve matters.

Things came to a head a few weeks after the incident of the little avalanche. We had been set to work on some tedious mathematical equations, and the early spring sunshine on the tall windows was compounding our suffering, making the room unbearably hot and stuffy. One of the older girls made a plea for the window to be opened and Mr. Rees-Jones gave me the task of using the long, hooked pole to reach up and release the catch. As I crossed the room, however, Ifor stuck out his foot. I tripped and was sent sprawling onto the floor at the very feet of the schoolmaster. Again I endured mocking laughter. I snatched up the pole and, standing on tiptoe, used it to unfasten the latch. I was supposed to settle the window into the metal holding strap, which would allow but a few inches of air. However, it seemed to me this would barely be enough to sustain one of the soft grey pigeons in the yard outside, let alone a roomful of pupils. Or a roomful of pigeons, thought I. The image I conjured in my mind of a flock of the flapping birds swooping and unloading their droppings around the classroom, and particularly upon Ifor, was simply too glorious to resist. Of course, Mr. Rees-Jones blamed me for letting the window fall wide open. He held me responsible for letting the pigeons into the room. And he could not help but notice that I alone was free from the white and grey splodges the panicked birds deposited upon everyone else in the room, himself included. He was never able to say how their unusual behavior was my fault, but it didn’t stop him wanting rid of me. When Mam collected me from school that day she was told plainly that I was no longer welcome to attend.

2.

As they near the end of their journey and the trees at the boundary of his land come into view, Cai feels a nervousness stir his stomach. What will Morgana make of Ffynnon Las? He is confident she will not be disappointed by the size of the house, or the scale of the farm, or the quality of his herd, but will she see the place as her home? He cannot know how much information her mother has passed on to her about his status. He cannot know, even, if such things matter to the girl. He does know, however, that she is a long way from the only home she has ever known, away from her mother, and thrown into a new life with a stranger. He does not want to remain a stranger to her. Indeed, whatever the case he put to Mair about needing a wife for his drover’s license—which is nonetheless a fact—he knows that he does want, hope for, expect? No, that would be too strong a word, but
wish
for a connection with Morgana that will go beyond a contract. Beyond an arrangement.

He recalls the first time he noticed her, all those long, lonely months ago. The drove had halted overnight at Crickhowell, and had the good fortune to arrive on market day. Having settled the herd, and having no obligations beyond that of drover, rather than
porthmon,
he had wandered into the little town to divert himself by looking at the stalls. It was late in the afternoon, and people were for the most part starting for home. Some of the traders were packing up for the day. However, he found a small covered market area where several stallholders remained, their wares piled high on sturdy tables or handcarts, still hoping for further customers. In one corner was a short, low bench covered in gingham, upon which were a half-dozen rounds of soft cheese, these being all that had not sold.

Morgana was standing behind the bench. She was wearing a plain cotton dress and crisp white apron, which made her look clean and wholesome, yet there was something disheveled about her. Her hair was insecurely pinned upon her head, with dark curls escaping here and there, giving the impression the whole lot could shake loose at any moment and cascade about her slender shoulders. He remembers rather hoping it would do so. Even though she was standing still, her restlessness struck him at once. It was as if she could barely contain herself, so keen was she to be released from her post, to be somewhere else, somewhere, he fancied, freer and more open. Her eyes would not settle on anyone, and when the town clock struck five she started violently, seizing on the sound as a signal to, at last, pack away and be released from the chore of watching the stall.

In her haste to wrap the cheeses one slipped from her grasp. It rolled across the flagged floor of the marketplace, collecting dust and dirt as it wound its way between booted feet and table legs. Morgana dashed after it, the laughter and shouts of the market-goers goading her on. She was forced to drop to her knees and scramble beneath a fruit stall to retrieve the runaway cheese. Two men, clearly the worse for a day’s drinking, made loud remarks at her expense. Uncalled-for comments which were both insulting and cruel, it seemed to Cai. He pressed forward through the small crowd, hastening to Morgana’s aid, but before he could reach her she herself had retaliated. Grasping the ankle of the more unstable drunkard, she wrenched his foot sideways, toppling him into his fellow and sending them both crashing through the nearby fish and game stall. A roar of laughter went up from the onlookers, as the pair thrashed about amid trout heads and ripe pheasants. Morgana leapt to her feet, clutching the errant cheese. The meaner of the two drinkers lurched to his knees, spitting further abuse at her. Cai held his breath, waiting for the young woman’s reaction. She narrowed her eyes, lifted the cheese high, and then brought it down with considerable force over her target’s head. He reeled backward, dazed, the crumbly cheese falling about his ears in clods, the crowd revelling in the hilarity of the moment. Cai found himself laughing, too, until he realized that he was under Morgana’s gaze. He turned to her then, looking deep into her dark, bright eyes, and in that moment, in that glimpse, he would swear he felt something pass between them. What? A flare of attraction? A fleeting flame of lust? He could not name it, but whatever it was, it reached him, it moved him. And he was certain Morgana had felt it, too.