‘Dad! Oh my God, Dad!’ When he attempted to get up she stopped him. ‘Don’t move. It’s OK. They’ve gone.’
‘Pumpkin, you were…’
‘I’m OK.’ She yelled over her shoulder. ‘Call a fucking ambulance!’
Tudor ignored her protests and struggled to his knees. He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You were bloody fantastic,’ he told her.
‘I thought you were…’ She moved to examine the back of his head and then looked at him, confused. ‘There’s no blood, nothing. The way he hit you, I thought he’d broken your skull!’ She paused, and then went on, her voice cracking. ‘I thought he’d killed you, Dad.’
Tudor managed a wonky smile. ‘You know I’m made of tougher stuff than that.’ He took a steadying breath, searching for the right words. Before he could think of any, Emily fell forwards into his arms, sobbing againsthis shoulder. ‘Hey, shhhh, it’s OK now, Pumpkin. You’re safe. They were no match for you, eh?’
‘Who were they? What did they want? They didn’t ask us for money or anything. Why would they attack us like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to find out.’
The Black Mountains, Wales 1085
Despite the stormy blasts of November, Mamgi made sure Gwen never missed a session of her training. Sometimes this would involve walking to the top of the mountain behind Blaencwm. The old woman would stride ahead on the path, her staff striking the muddy earth, making progress with impressive speed for one so tiny and frail. Gwen would follow, often carrying a candle, or a tied bundle of herbs, or a bag of bones, or some other items that her tutor deemed necessary.Some days they would sit by a fire pit away from the settlement and Mamgi would school her in ancient incantations and prayers. Gwen longed for spells with which to cast real magic, but she was told to be patient, and that the student must pace their studies according to their talent. She would bridle a little at this, but came to understand that the learning on which she was embarked was to be slow won. Whereas she had, she thought reasonably, expected to be proficient in all things a witch might be expected to do in a matter of weeks, grandmother Williams had let her understand this was a journey she would be making for the entirety of her life.
On one occasion, after a few sips of the birch sap wine a crofter’s wife had provided, the old woman did talk more specifically of what Gwen’s ultimate talents might be. They sat by the fire in the croft that they shared with four of the orphan children. As the little ones slept, Mamgi leaned back in her chair, savouring the sticky, potent wine, and Gwen saw her chance to press her while her guard was down.
‘Tell me more about my real mother,’ she asked. ‘You say she was a witch, one revered and loved. What was it she was able to do that made her so special?’
Mamgiclosed her eyes and was quiet for a moment so that Gwen began to think she had fallen asleep. At lastshe smiled, as if at a fond memory. ‘She shined with beauty and moved with grace, and these things drew people to her. But they are simple charms, which many girls have, and will not hold a person worth the holding. Her inner strength. Her pure heart. Her courage. For these things, she was loved. Her gifts as a witch, now… these were the things that called people to follow her, to trust her, to lean upon her and then, ultimately, to bind themselves to her. And it was not a frightened binding, but one undertaken willingly, gladly. For she became their queen.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Gwen. ‘Just as one dayyoushall be. No,’ she held up a hand. ‘Do not question me on this… that is for another day. You want to know what magic she could wield. I will tell you. As I have been teaching you in the ways of simple cures and bidding you learn ancient words that have aided witches through the ages, so she did learn these things and gain these skills. They have their worth, yes, but they were but small gems to surround the precious ruby at the heart of what she did. Of what she was. For she was filled with the White Shadow.’
‘You have spoken of this before, and yet I do not understand what it is or why it is called shadow if it is something good.’
‘Your ancestors named it so because things must have names, else we cannot fix them in our minds nor speak of them with others. They called it so because the light must fight the darkness, and so the shadow of wickedness can be balanced by a shadow of white which can lift that evil, replacing it with a force that is pure and good and born of kindness and selflessness, not hate and greed. That force, that power, is what your mother could wield to bring about change. Just as you do when you make the honeysuckle grow, or bid the snow clouds carry their icy danger to another place, or steady the storm that was otherwise intent on bringing our houses down upon our heads.’
‘So, my mother sang to the weather, as I do? She whispered to the plants?’
‘She did. And people besides.’
‘People?’
‘That same power that you use to gentle the wind or soften the drowning rain, she used to coax forth the goodness in people. She could move them to the light.’
‘But… to do so would be to control them, would it not? Do I have that right? Did she?’
‘It was her duty to conquer the darkness, and there is too much of it in this world for any one person, be she witch or queen, to do so alone. Others must bring their own light.’ Seeing Gwen’s troubled expression shewent on, holding up the small wooden beaker. ‘How came we to have this wine?’ she asked.
‘Why, Mair gave it to us.’
‘And how did Mair come by it?’
‘She made it. As she has always done. She tapped the birch trees and collected the sap that came forth, which she mixed with honey and kept safe while it altered to become wine.’
‘Think you she could do any of that now, if she was not moved to work her own simple magic? The woman lost her parents, her eldest daughter and many friends in the attack. Her world has been turned upside down and her heart bears deep wounds. She has a stiffness in her joints that pains her, and now she must live above the line of the trees, where the cold and wet want nothing more than to keep her indoors with nought but smutty flames in which to search for her lost ones. But no. Mair takes herself out. She tends her trees. She gathers the honey from her solitary hive. She makes her wine, to sustain not only herself, but all here who need it. She feeds our bodies and our spirits with what she does. She is the best of herself. The goodness inside her has won and we all benefit from it.’ Mamgi gave a nod of satisfaction and took another swig of the syrupy drink.
Gwen turned and looked into the low flames of the fire, thinking deeply about what she had been told.
On other days, they wouldgo to the river. These were Gwen’s favourite sessions, for they reminded her of the honeysuckle which had first shown her the magic she held inside herself. Here she would be expected to influence the movement of a willow bough, or slow the flowing of the river, or even still, in the smallest amount, the blowing of the wind. When the January snows came, she was taught how to make the laden clouds move on, choosing where the snow would fall and where it would not. She could only influence the exact spot by a matter of strides at first, but gradually she became more proficient, enabling her to keep at least the settlement clear through the final burst of winter. These elemental glamours gave her the most satisfaction and persuaded her that her patience would indeed be rewarded. And each time a lesson was learned, Gwen would remind the old woman of her promise and extract from her another detail of the witches of the White Shadow, her own origins, and her destiny. And each time Mamgiwould give only the slenderest sliver of information. Sufficient to keep Gwen wondering and willing to learn more, yet never quite answering her questions fully.
As spring returned to the high valley, its people began to grow restless, wondering how much longer they might have to hide in the hills. For some it was easier than others. The crofters still had their families. The children were content. The old men and women too weary and wary to want to venture forth. But for others, such as the men who had lost their wives, or the older children, there was a sense that their whole lives could not be lived this way. Gwen understood their impatience. There were days, when her training was dreary or lacked progress, or when Mamgiwas harsh or too tired to answer her questions, when she too felt the pull of the outside. What use was she, in truth, if she was to remain hidden away? Had she obtained freedom from being the daughter of a nobleman - for which she had paid a terrible price - only to be trapped by fear instead? They had no way of knowing who now had command over Cwmdu. If de Chapelle had become Lord of Brycheiniog, it would not be safe for her to be seen. Then again, should the others have to live in secret? Might they not wish to make new lives for themselves somewhere less wild, less apart from the world?
Every time the matter of whether people should descend to the valley was raised, there was little agreement on what should be done. With the old, Mamgiamong them, counselling caution and patience, and the children still too young to support themselves, the decision was always deferred.
At last, when their second autumn up at Blaencwm came to an end, a meeting was called. This was to be an important gathering, all were told. Everyone must attend, however young or old. No excuses for absence would be tolerated. In the days leading up to the meeting a certain excitement took hold. People whispered in corners. Work was ignored in favour of heated discussions. Change was being blown into the high vale on the sharp winter winds that now chased down from the mountains. On the morning of the meeting, Gwen tasted snow in the air. She knew that if they were to make the trip to the town it would have to be soon. While she could influence the weather around their own home, she could not prevent the heavy snowfall for miles that would make the routes impassable until the following spring. As the older members of the community made their way into the barn, the children played in the yard, putting off as long as possible the moment of being cooped up. Dafydd’s daughter, Bronwen, had grown so much in a year, but was still a gleeful child, and Gwen enjoyed her company, needing little persuasion to play with her. There were half a dozen others under the age of eight who liked toscamper about like a litter of puppies when they were released from their chores. Now they ran in circles, Bronwen, wearing a helmet she had somehow borrowed from one of the soldiers, chasing them with a stick.
