‘Think on the instructions I have given and you will find the wisdom you ask for. Or have I wasted my breath these long months?’
‘You have told me to listen to the beat of my heart, to heed the song of my soul, to follow where I am led by those things I cannot see.’
‘Ah! You remember.’
‘And still I feel no wiser!’
‘Did I not tell you that the ways of the White Shadow witches can not be learned in mere months? Did I not counsel patience?’
‘I have used up every crumb of patience I possess!’
‘Then you must find more!'
‘But my progress is woefully slow! Yes, I can chivvy the rain to fall to water our meagre crops. I can push away the icy snow that would stop our hearts in our sleep. I can bring forth bounty in our corn and beets and flowers. What I cannot do is take away this man’s fever, mend his broken bones, or snatch him back from death’s claws!’ She had not meant to shout, nor to rise to her feet so pointedly. She bit her lip against saying more, regretting speaking out of turn to the woman who mattered more to her than anyone else living. She lowered her eyes. ‘Forgive me, Mamgi. Weariness makes me harsh when I should be grateful. I know that you would do anything in your power to aid me.’
She sat on the edge of Tudor’s bed in thoughtful silence. After a short while, Mamgi spoke again.
‘You cannot wish yourself other than you are. You cannot wish time and the experience it will bring to happen sooner than it will. Yet know this, child: there is more magic in your presence, in your touch, in your heart’s song, than there is in a whole coven of those who might call themselves witches. Now, your guardian angel requires more remedy. The choice to stop or no is for him to take, not your.’
She did as she was bidden, tending her patient with the utmost care, administering more tincture, cleaning his wound, cooling his brow, through yet another night, the hours of which seemed to have stretched beyond all natural shape. Her own weariness overcame her long before dawn, and she fell into a dreamless sleep, seated beside the low bed but slumped onto it. When she at last awoke, with the weak sunrise falling through the gaps in the window shutters, she still held Tudor’s hand in hers. With a shock she registered how cold it was. Frightened, she touched his cheek, and then his lips. Relief coursed through her. He was not dead, but fever free.
‘Mamgi, look!’ She glanced over her shoulder but the old woman continued sleeping in her chair, her head nodding forwards, snoring softly. She turned back to Tudor and was startled to see his eyes open. Eyes that now sought to focus in the low light and make sense ofhis surroundings. He stared at her face, as if trying to remember, trying to bring his thoughts to order. Rhiannon waited, willing him to summon the strength to speak, wanting to be sure his recovery was real. He shifted slightly, wincing at the pain in his back but uttering no cry. Instead, at last, he spoke.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, his voice hoarse and robbed of power but still deep, ‘did those lambs of yours enjoy their dancing lessons?’
The mountain community adjusted with surprising ease to accommodate their new member. It had been another two days before Tudor had been strong enough to step out of the croft. Even then he could only walk short distances before fatigue over came him and he was forced to rest again. The villagers watched his progress at first with wariness, but soon with interest and a shared desire to see him mend well. This shift, this acceptance, had been helped in no small part by the return of Dafydd and the cart of supplies. While Tudor jousted with death, Dafydd was welcomed as a hero, a description he immediately rebuffed, insisting it was the stranger to whom they owed so much. He sat by the fire in the barn each evening recounting againand again, the events that had taken place in Talgar, weaving a detailed tapestry of words so that the others might see the truth. It was here he, and Rhiannon in the brief moments she stepped outside the croft, answered questions as best they could regarding Tudor. Where had he come from? They could not say. In whose employ did he serve? This, too, was unknowable, though some were quick to point out he was riding straight for the Great House. But had he known that the family of the Welsh Prince no longer resided there? It was impossible to say. And what of the fine chain mail that had undoubtedly saved his life? No ordinary Welsh soldier or sell sword owned such a thing, and the smithy declared the workmanship Norman. Had it been a gift? A payment? At first, Rhiannon had thought all these unknowable facts would cause the community to reject him. Their very lives depended upon being able to trust each other. How could they trust this man whose own story was not given to them? But then, as Dafydd and she told of his selflessness, his heroism, and the possible price he had paid for that benevolence, the company began to change their opinion. What did it matter what he had been or done before? Had he not proved himself now to be an ally? Were they not in his debt and honour bound to afford him the protection he had given so willingly to some of their own? Besides,with Brynach gone they were even more in need of a soldier. Who could say what battles lay ahead, now that Talgar had fallen to the Norman king? If the stranger survived his wounds and could be tended back to good health, he would surely be an asset to them.
And so it was decided he should stay. The weather had already made the leap from blustery autumn to raw winter. Each morning the ground hardened further with a fresh frost. The last of the leaves fell from the trees. Hungry birds stripped branches of berries of increasing scarcity. The winds which funnelled through the high valley were now as icy as those which blasted across the mountain ridge. The smell of snow was in the air. Better he stay the winter with them. He would be safe. Come spring, he could decide for himself whether he wished to continue on his way or become a permanent part of their community.
As Tudor’s strength returned, Rhiannon took it upon herself to familiarise him with his new home. With his wound healed to Mamgi’s satisfaction, he was allowed to slowly return to usefulness. He now slept with the others in the barn, and after breakfast each morning, Rhiannon took him out to walk another part of their mountain territory, to collect firewood or water, to gather plants for medicaments, to hunt birds and rabbits. There were times when the slow rate of hisprogress clearly frustrated him, but she learned that he was even tempered, patient, and determined. She also learned the he was cautious in talking about himself, reluctant to speak of his past, and resistant to making firm plans about his future. She was not surprised by this. Long before the Norman’s took England and then spread west to threaten the borders, Wales had been a turbulent and dangerous place in which to live. Warring princes had for generations disputed lands and titles. Reticence and wariness had become sensible traits in uncertain times. She of all people knew how thin a thread held a family safe.
When Tudor had been residing at the settlement for nearly three weeks, Rhiannon asked him to accompany her to the stream to gather the last of the moss before it was lost to the coming snows. The ground was unyielding beneath their feet and she knew there would be scant opportunity to gather useful plants before winters frigid grip choked the life from them for another year. She noticed Tudor walked more evenly, no longer favouring his left side, his injury having ceased to make its presence known to him with every stride. Even so, he was far from fully recovered, a fact not helped by the poor diet the community existed on in the winter months. They had found warm clothes for him to supplement his own and they hung loose on his angularframe. It would be some time before he regained his previous muscular form. She pulled her hood up against the mean wind that followed them as they descended into the river glade. As always, Taran loped beside her, silent and watchful, not yet prepared to allow this stranger near his mistress unsupervised.
‘He is your shadow,’ Tudor observed, watching the hound.
Rhiannon dropped a hand onto Taran’s shaggy head. ‘He misses my father still, I believe.’ She glanced at Tudor. ‘Or do you not credit creatures with such sensibilities?’
He raised his eyebrows a little. ‘Have you not met my horse?’ he asked.
Rhiannon smiled. ‘He does have an unfortunate temper. What made you choose such a mount?’
‘The vicious ones are cheap, and often superior to their more biddable stablemates.’
‘Are you a born tamer of horses, then?’
He shrugged. ‘We have an agreement - he does not bite me and I do not bite him.’
‘It seems he and Bronwen have a similar pact. He appears to love the child almost as much as she adores him.’
‘So you see, he is not the evil beast some would have him named.’
They had reached the stream. She stopped on the bank, pausing to listen to the song of the water as it chased over the rocks on its hurry down the mountain. The usual scents of the glade were held in ice now, so that now only the water itself had an aroma, sharp and fresh and brilliant. The lower branches of the rowan trees and blackthorn that stretched over the stream were bejewelled with frozen water droplets which glistened beneath the cooling sun. She breathed in the life-giving wonder of the glade untouched and ungoverned by man, unchanged over centuries.
Tudor stood beside her. ‘Is this place special to you?’ he asked, surprising her.
‘It is.’ She hesitated, uncertain how she could begin to tell him of the magic that was such a part of her. Uncertain, indeed, of whether or not she could ever tell him. And yet, all the villagers knew. She was no longer Gwen to them. She was Rhiannon, Queen Witch, and their magical protector. How could she keep such a thing secret from someone living among them? How long would it be before whispers reached him? Would it not be better to be clear and open, rather than have him ponder half truths and snatches of talk? As the silence between them grew wider she sought to turn the conversation away from herself. ‘Here, these are the mosses Mamgi asked for,’ she said, stooping to peel theicy, furry green cushions from a stone by her feet. ‘And see there,’ she pointed to a nearby tree, ‘that lichen has many uses for healing. Can you reach it?’
He did as she asked, wincing as he stretched up to get the tangle of pale grey plant that grew upon the boughs of the blackthorn bush.
