The Winter Witch Page 5

  “Duw, where are my manners?” Cai exclaims suddenly, pulling out a chair for the woman. She sits, gracefully settling onto the wooden seat, laying her riding crop upon the table. “Perhaps you would like some tea?” he asks.

  “Tea would be most welcome,” says she.

  Cai looks at me. I look at him. I take my place at the table and land heavily in my chair. She is his very good friend. Let him fetch her tea. He does so, clumsily. The burn on his hand is still troubling him, and he favors it awkwardly. Well, that is his fault. It is all his fault. If he had shown her into the parlor I might have been less wrong-footed, might have agreed to make the tea. She is not watching him but keeps her eyes on me. Her gaze is unsettling. Did he ever, truly, find comfort in her presence? I have the sensation of earwigs ascending my spine. This woman is not to be trusted.

  “Morgana”—how I dislike my name on her lips!—“you must not think I regularly go about calling upon neighbors at this hour. The brightness of the sun woke me early. Such a beautiful morning, I decided at once to make the most of it by taking Angel out for a gallop. I’ve tied him up in the shade now. I think he’s glad of a little rest. Do you like to ride?” she asks.

  I consider shaking my head, just to stop the conversation, such as it is. Just to avoid being in any way in agreement with the woman, but Cai is watching me, and he knows the truth. I nod, but show no enthusiasm. Still this does not prevent her from treading the common ground between us.

  “Then I hope you will allow me to take you out one day soon. I have a wonderful young horse that would suit you very well, I’m certain of it. Cai, would you permit your wife to come riding with me?”

  “Of course,” says he, putting tea in front of us. “That’s a kind offer. Isn’t it, Morgana?”

  A nod can be surprisingly eloquent. Neither Cai nor Isolda miss the contempt in my response. I see Cai’s jaw set and his eyes harden. Why does it matter so much to him that we please her? How many more people will I be expected to drink tea with while they ogle me as if I were an exhibit in a traveling circus? Did he marry me to provide a subject for gossip and curiosity among his precious neighbors? I feel suffocated by the thought. Trapped. I begin to experience a familiar pressure in my head. There is a noise inside my skull like the winter wind through pine trees. I know Cai is talking to me, saying my name, puzzlement in his voice, but he sounds distant. I want to close my eyes, to let myself be taken to that other place, to escape. A touch on my hand brings me spinning back into the room. I shift my focus, with some effort, and see that Isolda has laid her hand upon mine. She no longer wears her gloves, and the unexpected contact with her flesh sends a burning sensation up my arm and deep into my struggling mind.

  “Morgana?” Her words are syrupy with concern. “Are you quite well, child?”

  I snatch my hand away. A blue bottle, fat and heavy, flies into the room. It settles on the table between us. I frown, staring at it. For a moment it merely rubs its shiny legs together, but then, quite suddenly, it rises up and hovers between myself and Isolda. She watches me closely, her head on one side, with an expression I can only name as pity. I will not endure her condescension! The fly all of a sudden swoops toward her, buzzing and darting at her face. Without being in the least bit disturbed, Isolda lifts her hand as if to calmly swat it away. At least, this is what she allows Cai to see. I, however, have a closer view, and witness her trap the fly in her hand, silencing it with a deft squeeze so that its life juices seep out between her fingers. All the while she never once takes her cold eyes from me.

  I leap to my feet, my chair toppling noisily to the flagstones behind me. Pausing only to scowl at the vile woman I stomp from the kitchen, fleeing to my bedroom, Cai’s irritation clear in his voice as he calls after me.

  Almost an hour passes before I hear the front door rub against the stones and sounds of exchanged farewells at the garden gate. The horse’s hoofbeats speed away down the drive. Moments later I hear footsteps on the stairs. I turn toward the door, waiting to see how I am to be rebuked. But Cai does not come into the room. He does not even knock upon the door. Instead he speaks through it, his voice flat and restrained.

  “I’m going up to see the ponies. Mrs. Jones won’t be in today. There are vegetables in the pantry for you to make our midday meal, Morgana. I’ll be back at noon.”

  So saying he leaves, the dogs barking as they follow him. I go to the window expecting to see him striding across the pond meadow, but he does not. I wait, and shortly afterward he reappears, this time mounted on an unremarkable chestnut cob who lumbers up the hill. I watch them until they are out of sight. Midday meal indeed! I pace the room, the worn floorboards smooth beneath my feet. He knows I want to see the ponies. He invited me to go with him. And now I am not to go, all because of that hateful good friend of his. I shall stay in my room all day. Let him cook his own food! I will lose myself in father’s books. That way the hours will pass unnoticed and I will forget about the injustice of my treatment.

  And yet, the day is so lovely, I do not wish to spend it shut in the house. Was my behavior really so rude? Why can he not see that woman for what she is? The way she looked at me … as if I were deserving of her pity. A thing pathetic. She thinks I am not fit to be mistress of Ffynnon Las. Well, I shall show her different. I shall show them all different.

  I pull on my workaday brown dress and lace up my boots. The soles are wearing so thin I can feel stones through them. On the top stair I pause, my hand on the banister. Once again I feel a chill emanating from the direction of Cai’s room. There is no draft, but still the air seems to move toward me, as though icy fingers were laid upon my shoulder. I turn round, but there is nothing to see. Cross with myself for being so fanciful, I go down into the kitchen. The fire in the grate looks surly and unhelpfully low. There is a little coal in the brass bucket. I tip it on, causing a stinking plume of grey smoke but scant heat. Surely it will gather strength in a while. I venture into the pantry. There are jars of pickles and bottles of preserved fruit and bags of flour and hams hanging from hooks above my head. Mrs. Jones will not see anyone in this house go hungry, I think. I decide I will assemble a cawl of sorts. The staple hearty stew that bubbles away in kitchens across the land. The very idea of it transports me home. Well, this one will have to lack the lamb Mam might have put in it on fat days, but it will be cawl, nonetheless. Thinking of her, and of her cooking, and of home, brings a cold ache to my heart. What will she be doing now? How will she be faring without me? What would she make of my new home? I wonder if she knew how grand it is. I find it hard to believe, for she could surely never have imagined me the wife of a gentleman farmer with a housekeeper. I know Mam would laugh long and loud at the sight of me here in this larder faced with the task of cooking. The thought of her laughter brings another sharp stab of longing for her. She used to say I could burn water, left to my own devices. Well, I am a wife now. With a home of my own. And I will cook if it pleases me.

  I gather an armful of vegetables and take them to the kitchen table. The smoke has dwindled, and there are small flames visible in the fireplace now. I remove the kettle from the hook above the fire and search for a suitable stewpot. The one I find is cast iron, heavy even when empty, but will serve my purpose. I half fill it with water from the pail before, with some difficulty, hooking it into place over the heat. A short search produces a worn but sharp knife and I set about peeling and chopping. It seems to me vegetables are designed to fight off our attempts to render them edible. They hide beneath mud and tough skins, knobbled with eyes or crafty shapes which defy the attentions of my blade. I have not more than half finished my chore before the knife skids off a misshapen carrot and slices into my finger. I gasp, putting the wound to my mouth, the metallic taste of blood making my stomach tighten. Enough of this nonsense. Let the boiling water finish the job. I scoop up my ill-prepared ingredients and tip them into the pot. Water splashes out, hissing as it meets the hot coals. The grey mess looks nothing like the cawl I had been aimi
ng for. Finding a long wooden spoon I poke at it cautiously. The heat from the coals beneath the pot and the rising steam scald my hand so that I drop the spoon. Stepping back to a safe distance I frown at the bothersome concoction. I narrow my eyes, take a deep breath, and direct my mind to the matter. Slowly the spoon stands upright and then begins to stir. It stirs and stirs and stirs, rhythmically mixing the stew into something that might, with a little cooking, actually be fit to eat. When I am content with the results I jerk my head in the direction of the table and the wooden spoon obediently flies out of the pot and comes to rest next to the chopping board. I find a lid that fits snugly and drop it over the cawl. From beneath it comes a promising bubbling noise. I can see no value in my sitting to watch the thing, and in any case, the room is oppressively hot with the fire glowing on such a warm day, so I go outside.

  I scan the high horizon for sign of Cai, or perhaps a glimpse of darting orange that might be one of the corgis. There is nothing. I wander to the back of the house to investigate the yard of barns and stables. They are all constructed of the same cool stone as the house, with steeply sloping roofs of slate to withstand the copious rain of a Welsh winter. I am on the point of entering the tall hay barn when the sound of running water diverts me. I find, a little to the left of the yard, set into a steep bank that climbs up to the higher meadows, a well. There is a low stone wall to the front of it, into which has been placed a trough for the animals. This in itself is not remarkable, but beside it a further circle of stonework separates another deep pool. This has been designed so that livestock cannot reach it, and is set back beneath a curving ceiling of stone, like the entrance to a cave. Mosses of surprising brightness and delicate, feathery ferns grow among the slabs and rocks. At the uppermost point, water, quick and glittering in the morning sunshine, cascades down into the pool. The combination of shade, depth of water, the color of the stones, and some unknown element make the surface appear to be the most beautiful blue. Ah! It comes to me this is what gives the house its name, for Ffynnon Las means “blue well.” There is no visible outlet from either pool or trough, so the water must run on underground, presumably down to the pond in the meadow below. Leaning forward I cup my hand beneath the spout. The water is icy cold, having come straight from the heart of the hill, as yet unwarmed by summer air or sunlight. It tastes good. Slightly peaty, but exquisitely fresh and reviving. At the very top of the well ceiling there is a broad, flat piece of masonry with something carved into it. It is old and worn, but I am able to make out the faint remnant of two letters, though which they are I cannot be sure. There is something about this well, something beyond the freshness of the bubbling spring water and the prettiness of the plants. I sense, no, more than this, I would swear I can hear something more. It is as if the well sings to me, a high, clear note, ringing through the warmth of the day, laying its sound sweetly upon my ears.

  I reach down into the pool and soak my arms, the chill of the water numbing the stinging cut on my finger. For a second I see a drop of blood swirl among the eddies before being diluted to nothing, and then the iciness works on my body to stop the flow. When I take out my hand and examine it the cut is almost invisible. Almost as if it never was.

  * * *

  Cai does not need to take his father’s watch out of his waistcoat pocket to know that it is already past noon. The ponies were at the far point of the high grazing, and finding them took him longer than he had anticipated. The herd was in fine fettle, coats gleaming, foals playful and growing well. The minute he was among them he was sorry he had not taken Morgana. He is certain she will share his love of these fiery little horses. Now, as he urges the old ginger mare down the steep slope to home, he feels he may have been too harsh on the girl. He cannot imagine why she was so hostile toward Isolda, but then, there are many things he has yet to understand about her. It could be she felt at a disadvantage, sitting there in her nightgown. Even if she did look enchanting. Perhaps she had not slept well—it was her first night at Ffynnon Las, after all, and she had been out in the meadow to greet the dawn. As the house comes into view he resolves to be more patient with her. She must be missing her mother. Time will soften her temper and help her to settle in. Or so he must believe.

  In the yard he dismounts and takes the saddle and bridle off Honey. The horse is content to pick at the grass between the cobbles while he puts the tack on its rack in the storeroom. The little stone stable is full of lovingly cleaned and well-worn harnesses for driving, ploughing, and riding, all kept at a height to deter hungry mice. Cai opens the wooden gate into the small field at the back of the yard.

  “Come on, then, girl. Off you go.”

  Honey saunters into the field, her tail swishing lazily at the persistent flies that have been attracted by her sweaty coat. Cai gives her an affectionate pat on the rump as she passes. She is as unglamorous and homely a horse as he has ever owned, but her steady temperament and hardy constitution have endeared her to him over the years. He is doubtful, though, that she will be up to the rigors of the drove. He will have to find another mount before long, one more suited to three weeks of hard riding. Calling the dogs, who have paused to loll in the shade by the well, he makes his way back into the house. As he opens the back door he optimistically sniffs the air, hoping for some hint that a meal might be waiting for him. The overpowering stink of burnt food brings him almost to the point of retching.

  “Morgana?” he calls, anxiety lending an edge to his voice. He finds the kitchen wreathed in drifting smoke from a hissing fire and a belching stewpot. “What in God’s name…?” Hurrying forward he seizes the coal tongs and carefully unhitches the pot from its hook before setting it down on the hearth. The corgis, who had been at his heel, retreat to find clean air elsewhere. The lid of the pot has been forced off by the boiling stew inside, which has spilled over onto the coals, resulting in a smoldering mess. The inside of the pot carries the remains of what might once have been carrots, parsnips, potatoes, and leeks, though Cai can recognize nothing.

  “Morgana!” he yells. This time it is anger rather than concern that adds volume to his voice. A glance around the room tells him wherever she is, not only did she abandon the cooking but she did not so much as bother to clear away the breakfast things. The bread and milk and teacups remain on the table, coated in a layer of grime from the char-laden smoke. “Morgana!” He storms from the room and up the stairs, this time not hesitating at the door, but throwing it open. He is not truly surprised to find it empty, for he is quickly being made to realize that his new wife is not a person who enjoys being in the house. He is about to go in search of her when he catches sight of her crate of books. The lid is off, and though she has not yet had time to take them out, it appears she has been looking through the various volumes. Curiosity gets the better of him and he squats down beside the crate for a closer look. The first book he finds is a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, in English. It is a little dog-eared, but the evidence is of wear, rather than neglect, with no stains of mildew or signs of worm damage. He opens the cover, and inside reads, in an elaborate hand, Silas Morgan Pritchard 1821. He picks up the next and finds the same. And the next. All the books, it seems, once belonged to Morgana’s father, for whom she was evidently named. It was her father, then, who sparked within her the love of the written word. This mysterious man about whom Mair would say no more beyond that his daughter had idolized him, and that he had disappeared one day when she was very small. Cai feels an understanding forming within himself; something so obvious, now that he has come to it, that he is amazed by his own slowness in not having fathomed the fact sooner. Morgana had ceased speaking when she was a young child, and that moment, that shutting off of her voice from the world, had been the very same moment her father had vanished from her life forever.

  Cai sits back on his heels and tries to imagine how the pain of that loss must have struck the child. He recalls at once the agony of his grief for Catrin. His own response had, indeed, been to withdraw from the world. Was th
at not what Morgana had done, at least in the way, as a child, she was able? The door of the wardrobe is open and within it hang her few articles of clothing. Rising, he moves to look closer. There is a dress of dark blue cotton, clearly kept for best, perhaps chapel. It is pitifully plain, unfashionable, and patched in several places. The slips, pinafore, and petticoat show similar states of wear and repair. Cai feels a pang of pity for the girl. Here she is, landed up in a big draughty house with a stranger for a husband, and all manner of visitors coming to gawp at her, and she has not one decent garment in which to dress herself. Small wonder she wants to run and hide.

  He senses rather than hears Morgana in the doorway, the suddenness of her appearance startling him so that he jumps. Self-consciously, he steps away from her clothes. How must it look to find him touching her undergarments and examining her linen! Embarrassment makes him sharper than is his intention.

  “You left the cawl unattended. That was very foolish. I came home to find the kitchen full of smoke.” When she shows not the slightest suggestion of remorse he adds, “You could have burned the house down!”

  Her response to this is to cast her eyes down. In doing so her gaze sweeps over her crate of books, and she notices that they have been disturbed. At once her demeanor changes from sullenly defensive to furious. She rushes to the wooden box, falling on her knees beside it. She grabs the books, placing them back inside just as they had been, and then snatches up the lid and slams it in place. She leaps to her feet, standing defensively in front of her prized possessions, her fists clenched at her sides, her face dark with rage.

  Cai is unnerved by the intensity of her reaction. “I did no harm,” he says. “I see that they were books belonging to your father…”

  He is not permitted to finish his sentence. Morgana runs at him, her loose hair streaming, fists raised. Instinctively Cai raises his own hands to protect himself, but she does not strike him. Instead she shoves him, hard, both hands pushing against his chest so that he is forced backward, off balance, staggering out of the room. The instant he is across the threshold she slams the door on him. All five of the paintings hanging on the landing crash to the ground, their glass seeming to smash before they even reach the floorboards, as if they were not so much shaken from their hooks as exploded. Cai stands still, his heart pounding. Only when he is convinced the storm is over does he turn and go downstairs.