The Winter Witch (31 page)

“Can you do it, Morgana?”

I take a steadying breath and pick up the needle. Once I have cauterized the point and coaxed the thread through the eye I move the candle to the table so that as much light as possible falls on Cai’s arm. The wound looks dauntingly long now. How many stitches will be required? How many times must I force the point of steel through my husband’s flesh and tug it out again? How will he endure such a lengthy, painful process? He sees me hesitate.

“Courage,
cariad.
It must be done.” I feel him struggle to sit up straighter. “Would you have me ask another?”

I shake my head firmly, placing my hand on his to still him. He nods, satisfied that I am up to the task.

I choose an area of skin that looks firm and in good health. I have no wish to go deeper or farther from the opening of the wound that is absolutely necessary, but if I am too timid, if I select flesh that is damaged or thin, it will not be strong enough to hold, and the thread will tear through it, reopening the cut. The horn of a bullock is a blunt, brutal instrument when applied to a man’s arm, and the injury is not neat or regular but jagged and ripped at the edges. The needle enters the flesh easily enough. Cai remains motionless, his breath held against the anticipated pain. Now I must push the needle hard to work it through. Fresh blood emerges in its path. I grit my teeth, compelling myself to keep to my task. But it is hard! To so slowly and deliberately inflict pain on one who matters to me so. As I tug at the needle to draw the thread through I hear Cai curse, feel him turn his face away from me. To extract the needle fully from his flesh I have to pull with some strength, as it is gripped by the wetness that lies beneath his skin. I am too timorous in my movements, so that it is only on the third attempt that the needle frees itself. It does so with such sudden speed that I stab my left hand with the point. I raise my palm to my mouth to stop the flow, but not before a drop of my own blood has fallen into Cai’s gaping wound. And now I recall Catrin’s china. Now I think of how I mended so many cracks and breakages. Could I do that now, for Cai? I am no healer. I have not talent to make the sick well or banish their pain. But I can move things. I can stir their composition. I can shift and alter the arrangement of things. My lessons with Mrs. Jones must surely have increased my ability and my control where my magic is concerned. But what if I were to produce a bad result with my unruly skills? How badly might Cai fare were I to mismatch and confuse as I worked? I have never attempted such a thing before. Never sought to produce a mending upon a living person.

“Morgana?” Cai’s voice is tight with effort and pain. “Are you able to go on,
cariad
?”

I give him a gentle smile. I sense his confusion as I take the scissors and snip the thread, before putting down the needle. He watches me closely, as if he is somehow aware of what I am about to do. Does he now recall my mending skills, I wonder.

I hold my palm above his cut and let three more drops of my blood fall into it. Then I place my hands over the vivid pinkness of his wound. I close my eyes. I put all my attention, all my will, all my heart, into the challenge I have set myself. Very soon I have the sensation I am falling backward. I feel a lightness in my head, and hear a noise in my ears like the flapping of the wings of a giant bird of prey. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, they beat. My body begins to heat up. The temperature rises, starting with my feet and hands, working inward toward my heart in no way that follows any sensible pattern. Soon I am almost overcome with the intensity of the heat, and fear I may be burnt up from the inside. But still I do not move, I do not release my grip on Cai’s arm. I will not stop! Now I find I cannot open my eyes. There is a blackness swamping me, as if I am interred in some deep, underground place, from which I may never escape. My breathing becomes rapid and shallow. Will I lose myself in this endeavor? Will I be able to find my way back?

And now, far in the distance, I hear someone softly calling my name. Slowly it becomes louder. At last I recognize Cai’s voice.

“Morgana? Morgana?”

Of a sudden I am able to see again. I blink away blurriness from my eyes and look down at Cai’s arm, which I still grip with both my hands. Cautiously, I remove them, to reveal his wound sealed shut! The join is not pretty, and the flesh looks angry and inflamed, but it appears strongly melded, and I know it will hold. Cai touches my cheek.

“You did well, my wild one. You did very well, see?”

I find I am almost too weak to stand. I try to get to my feet, but fall. Cai catches me and sits me on the edge of the bed. I am shaking, my whole body gripped by tremors. Cai kneels in front of me, his hands on my shoulders.

“’Tis the shock,” he tells me, settling to the task of unlacing my boots. “Here you are looking after me, but you yourself have been through an ordeal. Had you not been able to cut the rope on the far gate and jump behind the wall…”

He leaves the words unspoken, but we both know what it is he is trying to say. It could have been me lying trampled and broken in that yard. Indeed, it most likely would have been, if it weren’t for the brave actions of a generous-hearted man, a man who now lay cramped in a coffin on his final journey home. In truth I do not know what troubles me the most—my brush with death, my overwhelming feeling of guilt that Dai died saving me; my loathing of Edwyn; or my fear that no one but Cai will ever believe the truth of what happened.

Cai takes off my boots and helps me out of my outer garments. The stump of candle flickers and dies, so that the room is lit only by the dull twilight through the windowpanes. He empties the washbowl out the window and refills it. There are clean cloths on the tiled stand, and he selects one, dipping it in the water and then wringing it out. He kneels before me once more and gently bathes first my face, and then my hands. I feel as a child, soothed by a loving parent, and yet there is something else his tender touch ignites within me. Something sweet and sharp at the same time. Something powerful which has lain dormant.

“My poor wild one,” says he, washing my fingertips. “You need rest, see? You’ll feel stronger in the morning.”

At last the trembling subsides, though I feel flimsy as a newborn lamb. I let him lift my feet and settle me on the blissfully soft mattress. He walks to the far side of the bed and I hear his boots drop, one, two onto the floor and then his clothes.

He climbs into the bed and moves to lie close behind me. His body curves around mine but the contact is oh so very slight. Yet I feel the heat of him; his bare chest against my back, his smell of spice and earth, his breath warm and half-held against my neck. His heartbeat echoes in its cage of ribs, the beat strong enough to interrupt that of my own, faster and more nervous. I feel at once terrified and exquisitely alive. I realize it is not him I fear, but the unpredictable nature of my own response to him. To his nearness. To his restrained strength. To his desire.

He touches my brow, gently moving a stray lock from my forehead, settling to stroke my hair softly.

“Sleep now,
cariad
. Fret no more today. Only sleep. I am here. Sleep.”

But now I am far from sleep! My senses are astir and ablaze. How is it possible to feel such things and to sleep? If we are always to share a bed I may die for the lack of it. His presence is so powerful. It disturbs me to acknowledge how he agitates me. He is so vital, so astonishingly full of life. There is something comforting in the extreme, certainly, to know such protection, for I am confident nothing would induce him to use his strength against me, only in my defense. The thought allows a kernel of hope to form inside me, set to grow with a spark of … what? Affection? Love, even? No, I cannot conceive of allowing myself to love, not now, not when I am raw from the loss of it. What, then? What is it that stirs my blood, that hastens my heartbeat, that causes my breath to catch in my throat and my mind to float at his touch? Is it desire, then? Is that what this is? Desire for him? Desire for him.

“Shh,
cariad,
” he soothes, all too aware of my restlessness. “Shh,” he whispers, and, despite the heavy weight of all that has happened this day, I smile. For never in my life before has a person had cause to urge me to be quiet!

15.

By the following morning the temperature has dropped and there is a feel of autumn in the wind that accompanies the drove as they progress ever eastward. Cai directs the young cattleman he has engaged to work the rest of the way to follow the cattle on foot, and to be ready to help Watson or Morgana if they have need of him. His name is John, and what he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm. Indeed, his energy and cheerfulness are at odds with the rest of the company, but then he has not recently lost a friend. He does not notice the absence of Dai and his family. He does not struggle, as the others do, to shut out the heartbreaking image of Cerys and her boys weeping over Dai’s shattered body. Still, Cai reasons, it is as well to have at least one person on the drove whose every action is not colored by grief. Cai’s own heart is leaden in his chest. When he thinks of Dai the memory is tainted by the rage he feels toward Edwyn. The matter is not yet at an end, he knows it. Knows that upon his return to Tregaron he must visit Cerys, must make sure she understands the truth, must see that justice is done for Dai.

At least he has something else to fill his mind with; something that gives him hope for the future instead of regret for the past. The exquisite closeness he enjoyed with Morgana is still fresh in his mind. She allowed him to care for her, allowed him to step closer. He closes his eyes to savor the recollection of that closeness. The hours he spent with her sleeping in his arms were the most wonderful he has passed in many long, lonely years. How could he ever have doubted her? How could he have thought that she would let Edwyn…? Not for the first time he feels ashamed at how quickly and how harshly he has judged her.

They journey another taxing day, the cold rain forcing everyone into their long coats, collars turned up, hats pulled low. Even Bracken’s fur is sodden to a dull brown. Neither song nor banter speeds the passing of the miles, only the knowledge that each footfall made, each hour ridden, moves them nearer to their goal and the completion of their task. And ultimately, nearer to returning home. For there is no delight among the drovers now. They must all draw upon their reserves of will and strength, driven on by a common cause, and by the need to succeed if they are to avoid poverty in the coming winter months. Finding no inn come six o’clock Cai settles for a farm with ample grazing. The farmer, sensing an opportunity to turn a speedy profit, charges over the odds per head of livestock. Were Cai not so weary he would have haggled further, driving down the price, but he is tired in his bones, and can think only of rest. Sara cooks up a thin stew for supper and a small quantity of ale is found. The mood is dark, and John’s chatter is jarringly bright. When someone halfheartedly suggests Watson give them a song the shepherd merely shakes his head and sucks hard on his clay pipe.

They are billeted in a drafty barn, the roof of which has more gaps than tiles, so that it is hard to find a dry space to bed down upon. Cai comes upon some old woolsacks and does his best to fashion a tolerable sleeping space for himself and Morgana. When he has finished he calls to her.

“Not much comfort tonight, I’m afraid. Most of us are tired enough to sleep standing up, mind.”

She gives him a small smile and then picks up the blanket and holds out her hand to him. Puzzled, he lets her lead him out of the barn and away from the farm. Bracken trots behind. They walk some distance in the rain, climbing over a rickety stile and crossing a sloping meadow, before coming to a little stone barn in the corner of a fallow field. There are no doors, only an opening on one side and two narrow windows. Cai cannot see how such a place would provide better accommodation, but he follows her inside. Morgana points out an old wooden ladder which leads up to a hay loft. He goes in front, testing each rung carefully. Once up on the broad boards he reaches down a hand and helps her up. The space is small, but dry and warm, with the additional benefit of sweet-smelling hay as bedding. From below comes a squeak of protest from the dog, who eventually gives up and settles to sleep.

For a moment Cai and Morgana stand where they are, the sound of the rain falling on the slates above them, both dressed to keep the weather out, their coats skimming the wisps of hay on the floor, water dripping from the brims of their hats. Cai thinks he could stay gazing into Morgana’s wonderful face forever. He lifts a hand and touches her cheek. Her skin is so soft and his hands so rough from his farming life he can scarcely feel the contact. He takes hold of her water-sodden hat and lifts it from her head. Her hair, as ever, is only partially tied back, and for the most part is wet, making it even curlier and glossier than usual. He gently removes what few pins there are so that it swings forward, thick and loose. Shyness overcomes Morgana and she drops her gaze, lowering her head. Cai puts a finger beneath her chin and tilts her face up once more.

“Do you know how very beautiful you are, my love?” he asks. At this she blushes, but also allows herself a smile. Now she takes his hat off, letting it drop onto the hay beside her own. She unbuttons her coat and he does the same. Next they unlace and tug off their boots. Now Cai sees Morgana’s confidence desert her. She stands before him hesitating, uncertain. He steps closer, takes her face in his hands and kisses her lightly on her slightly open lips. He kneels before her, pulling her gently down onto the hay beside him. For a long while they lie close to one another, reveling in the tenderness of the moment. Her fingers explore the contours of his face. He places the briefest of kisses on her throat and neck, finally tasting that treasured spot in her nape he has for so long wished to touch. He finds he is horribly afraid of upsetting her, of moving too fast. He wants her, his desire for her fierce and urgent, but above this, above everything, he wants her to want him. He has waited many weeks so that this moment will be right, will be a culmination of their growing affection for one another. She is such a wild, unfathomable creature, he fears if he overpowers her, overwhelms her, she might instinctively retreat, recoil, and turn away from him. Slowly he removes her clothes and his, one button, then another, one garment, then another, taking infinite care. At first she merely allows him to do this, neither resisting nor assisting. Then, gradually, she becomes bolder, slipping his shirt from his shoulders, running her hands over his lean chest, nuzzling into his neck, tentatively tasting the salty skin of his throat. He kisses her deeply now and feels her respond. Quickly their movements and faltering touches become more urgent, more driven. He pulls her to him and feels her wrap her arms and legs tight about him. It is as if after all they have been through together, and after all the waiting and watching and wanting, at last they can abandon themselves to the heat of their mutual desire. He is both surprised and pleased by how responsive she is. How eager. How passionate. Later he will wonder how he ever thought she could be otherwise; such a wild instinctive creature would surely know how to give her all to the act of love. But now he is lost in the moment, unable to form sensible thoughts, conscious only of the sweet harmony of such shared intimacy, and of the exquisite pleasure they are both able to enjoy.