The Winter Witch (39 page)

There is neither wind nor sun. The air is thick with cold, and the sky pregnant with the promise of more snow to come. The landscape beneath this heaviness is a dull white. A white tinged with grey. A white that does not reflect prettily, or glisten brightly. A white that suggests merely an absence of life. Nothing can thrive or grow in such bleakness. The birds and animals whose lot it is to exist here, now, in this suffocating cold, can only endure. Only work to survive the bitter ice that would still their hearts and freeze the blood in their veins. As I ride farther along the lane, Prince and Honey are forced to stagger and plunge through drifts that have formed between the hedgerows. Fog descends upon us, so dense and heavy with moisture that it has soon soaked manes and hair alike, and this water in turn quickly freezes. Within a short time, every branch and twig, every stone and fence post, is coated with a bristly covering of ice. As are the horses. As am I. My hair is frozen white, and makes an unearthly tinkling sound as I move. What manner of winter is this? It is unnatural. So much so, that I even begin to suspect Isolda’s hand behind it. The notion that she might be capable of bringing out such deadly conditions, blighting not only the objects of her fury but the weak, the vulnerable, the innocent at random, is a heavy thought to carry with me.

By the time we reach Tregaron Honey is puffing and weary and both horses steam as sweat cools off them. The little town is hushed and empty, with few people venturing out. Even so I feel eyes upon me. Suspicious eyes. Wary eyes. Fearful eyes. With my icicled hair and outlandish clothing I must cut a curious figure. The snow-muted hoofbeats of the horses echo flatly against the stone walls of the houses in the square. I dismount, tie reins and rope to a hitching post, and knock upon the door of Dr. Williams’s house. Across the street from where I stand is Isolda’s imposing home. I know she will be aware of my presence. I keep my back turned and do my utmost to empty my mind.

Dr. Williams’s maid opens the door. She looks down her crooked nose at me.

“The doctor is engaged,” she informs me with unconvincing haste.

I take the coins and the letter Cai has written requesting laudanum and hand it to her. She takes it from me gingerly, as though it might bite her, and disappears back inside, the door shut firmly against me lest I should force my unwelcome way in. As if I would wish to!

A group of small children has assembled on the stone monument a few paces off. They watch me closely, whispering among themselves. Soon they are joined by an elderly man and two women whom I recall from chapel. They stand and stare at me as if I were a visitor from a foreign land. The looks they cast my way are not friendly. Indeed, they are openly hostile, and I notice the old man spit loudly in my direction, the yellow sputum discoloring the snow for a few ugly seconds before being absorbed by it. Now three more men emerge from the inn, their faces dark. Mrs. Jones was right—these people are afraid. Their loved ones are dying, and they have been convinced, not least by the exhortations of Reverend Cadwaladr, that someone among them is to blame. Someone different. Someone upon whom suspicion has already fallen. Someone with whom an untimely death is associated. And then I hear it, muttered quietly at first, and then again with gathering strength: the word
witch
.

Abruptly the door in front of me opens again and the maid reappears. She thrusts a dark brown bottle into my hand and retreats once more. The door slams, sending snow from the roof onto the street beside me. I hear a heavy bolt pushed home. Tucking the bottle carefully into the inside pocket of my coat I walk as briskly as the going allows to the grocer’s shop farther down the street. I sense that the crowd is shifting behind me. Following me. I make my purchases as quickly as possible, planning to call next at the butcher’s for the ham and then make my escape. With the dried fruit packaged and nestled in my large outer pocket, a small bottle of brandy next to it, and the sack of oatmeal on my shoulder, I emerge once more onto the square. I need to turn right for the butcher’s, but my way is now blocked by three burly youths. They regard me with silent aggression. Someone in the crowd has more to say for themselves.

“Go home!” comes the cry. “You are not welcome here.”

“Stay away!” adds another.

“Witch!” shouts someone bolder. “Witch!”

Within seconds the entire mob is chanting at me.

“Witch! Witch! Witch!”

I push past, hampered by the oatmeal but pressing on, refusing to be riled. I must not be drawn into conflict, I must not! To let loose my temper now would only confirm what they suspect and fuel their hatred of me. Prince has sensed the danger and whinnies at me from the far side of the square. If only I can reach him I can leave quickly.

The first stone whistles past my face. And then another. And another. I am close to the horses when a large lump of sandstone strikes my cheek with such force that I stumble, landing heavily in the snow, the sack of oatmeal snagging on the wall, ripping open, disgorging its contents in an instant. The crowd, as if shocked, hesitate, and I seize the moment. Abandoning the oatmeal I untie Honey, grab Prince’s reins, and spring quickly into the saddle. Blood trickles from the wound on my face, splashing crimson onto the pony’s frosted mane. It is taking all my concentration, all my will, to control the force that rages within me; my own protective instinct which would, given freedom, rain havoc upon these vicious people. I am on the point of urging Prince through the crowd and forcing an exit when I see Isolda come out of her house. She is dressed in fine furs and looks strikingly elegant and composed. How misleading are the appearances of people. How can I expect society to accept a wild harum-scarum such as I, and to doubt the picture of respectability and prosperity Mrs. Bowen presents?

For a moment I wonder if she will spur on my persecutors. Will she openly side with them and reveal her hostility toward me? At this moment she would surely find support for any theory she might put forward which was in agreement with their own misplaced fears.

Oh, Morgana
—her voice is inside my head again!—
do you think I would be so stupid, so clumsy?

She hurries forward.

“Why, Mrs. Jenkins!” she cries, her hands to her mouth, her face the very picture of genuine concern. “You are hurt!” She rushes through the crowd who step back, deferential, more than a little confused. “Come, child,” says she, putting a hand on Prince’s bridle, standing in front of me so that I would have to ride over her to make my escape. “Come into my home and let me dress your wound. You are in no condition to ride.”

I shake my head, digging my heels into Prince’s flanks to push him forward. But the hold she has over him is more than merely physical and he does not so much as lift a hoof, instead standing stock-still, as if in terror. What manner of horror has she laid before his bright eyes to affect such a state?

One of the women in the crowd finds her voice.

“Have a care, Mrs. Bowen,” says she. “That girl is wicked! To be near her is to risk harm!”

“Surely not.” Isolda is a fine actress!

“’Tis true, missus,” adds a toothless man. “She cursed the drove. She’s cursed this town.
Duw,
she’s even cursed her own husband!”

All of a sudden, Prince comes to his senses, but with such a fright, with such anguish driving him, that he rears up on his hind legs, so that I am forced to lean forward and cling to his mane to stop myself from sliding off. He bounds ahead as if I have whipped him, and in doing so knocks Isolda to the ground. She falls with a cry to drag pity from a heart of stone. Prince plunges on. Glancing back I see the terrible woman being assisted by the onlookers. Fists are waved at me, oaths sworn, and further stones thrown. I give Prince his head, and he needs no further bidding to gallop from the town square. Even Honey is startled into action and soon catches up as we hasten toward home.

*   *   *

Cai has rarely in his life felt such fury as he does now. The sight of Morgana returning, bruised and bleeding, and the tale his questioning revealed has enraged him to the point of senselessness. There are gaps in the story which even Mrs. Jones’s more careful inquiries could not provide answers to, but they have gleaned sufficient information to paint a dark and ugly picture of events. As Morgana goes upstairs to change into dry clothes he paces unevenly about the kitchen, his face contorted with impotent anger.

“How could they? How could they turn on her like that? What madness drives them?” he demands.

Mrs. Jones shakes her head slowly. “They are afraid,
bachgen
. They are in despair,” she tells him.

“That does not give them the right to set upon a defenseless girl.”

“They do not see Morgana as defenseless. They see her as dangerous.”

“What? What nonsense is this?”

“Many are sick,
cariad
. There is fever in the town and many have died. They believe it comes from here. From Ffynnon Las.”

“But, I do not have a fever. Why would they think that?”

“People do say Morgana is responsible.”

“For the sickness in Tregaron? Morgana? This is insanity!” He looks at her now. “And you, Mrs. Jones? Is that what you believe?”

Mrs. Jones tugs at her apron and shakes her head again. “Of course I do not! ’Tis cruel unfair,
bach.
That girl of yours is more godly than half of them as attends chapel. But Edwyn Nails has spread his poison. And that
creature,
Isolda Bowen…”

“Isolda? What part has she to play in this?”

“In my opinion folk would do better to look to her if they wish to rid their town of evil.”

Cai runs a hand through his hair. He cannot make sense of any of it.

“Mrs. Bowen has good standing in Tregaron. She is respected. Well thought of.”

“But what does anyone know of her? What do you really know of her, Mr. Jenkins? You do see a wealthy widow, proper and God-fearing. But who ever met her husband? Did he even exist? How did she come by her fortune? Why has she no family as she ever makes mention of, or do ever visit?”

“But why would she hate Morgana so? What has she to gain by setting people against her?”

“Morgana sees her for what she truly is.”

“The two dislike each other, I know.” He hesitates, then goes on. “Such rivalries between women are not uncommon. Isolda and I were … friends.”

“Oh yes, Morgana has something that Isolda wants. But it is not you,
bachgen
.”

“What then?” He throws up his hands against her answer. “No. Do not tell me more on the subject. I have neither time nor strength to deal with such squabbles.”

“Squabbles!” Mrs. Jones is pushed into snapping at him. “
Duw, bachgen,
we are not talking of two silly women making fools because they are pitched against each other in love. Lord save us from the vanity of men!”

“I only meant…”

“’Tis true if anything can save you it will be Morgana’s love.”

“Save me?”

“Open your eyes, Mr. Jenkins, and look at that wicked woman you hold in such high esteem. She is not as she appears. She is not what she pretends to be. She is not what you and every other shortsighted person in the village believes her to be. Every one except your wife.” Seeing his confusion Mrs. Jones stops.

Cai senses there is still something she is not telling him, but he is too tired, too weary, too angry to stuggle to understand more.

“Maybe I do not know the woman at all. If you say so, I believe you, Mrs. Jones, but, to be honest, I do not have it in me to worry further about her. Not now. What truly concerns me is the way the people of this parish have turned against Morgana. That they could believe she is somehow responsible for their sickness, for their loss … it is inconceivable. How do they think her capable of such a thing?”

Mrs. Jones takes a deep, slow breath and meets his eye levelly.

“They believe she has the skill of cursing. They think she has visited sickness upon them because she is evil and can do so. They even believe she has brought about this terrible weather.”

“The weather!”

“Aye, they have convinced themselves of it,
bach
. So much so, that they have given her a name. I’ve heard it whispered, though most are careful what they say in my presence.” She pauses, but forces herself to continue, “They do call her the Winter Witch.”

18.

I am astonished, the next morning, to be woken by sharp shards of sunlight slicing between the cracks in the curtains. I slip from the bed, being careful not to disturb Cai. The laudanum brought merciful relief from his pains, and though it took a deal of persuasion before he would drink it, he knows, as we all do, the restorative powers of sleep. He looks so peaceful, his features so untroubled. It is rare to see him thus nowadays.

I dress and hurry downstairs, quelling a shudder when unseen fingers, every bit as cold as the ice daggers that hang from the window ledges outside, scratch at my back as I pass the door to Cai’s room.

Mrs. Jones is already risen, and reassuring smells of baking drift out from the kitchen.

“Well, you look a little better this morning,
cariad,
” she tells me, dusting flour from her hands and frowning at the bruise on my cheek. “And Mr. Jenkins still sleeping, is he?”

I nod and peer round her at the griddle on the stove. Half a dozen
picau ar y maen
bubble and steam, the sweet aroma of the traditional Welsh cakes making my mouth water. Mrs. Jones laughs at me.

“Two more minutes and they’ll be ready. Got to give them a good dusting of sugar yet, mind. I’ve mix for another batch. And I’ve
bara brith
in the oven. Put that dried fruit you fetched to good use. We do have to tempt that man of yours into eating, see? I always used to set to baking when my little Maldwyn was poorly. Now then,
merched
. You sit down and I’ll fetch you something to eat. Can’t go out feeding the stock with your own stomach rumbling fit to scare the sheep.”

But I shake my head. It is many days since I have seen the sun and I am anxious to be out in it. Anxious to be doing rather than thinking, for I am weary of worry. I dart past her and steal a sizzling cake, using my sleeve to stop it burning my fingers. She squawks and swats at me with her cloth but I am quickly out of the room, snatching up my hat and coat as I go, Bracken at my heels.