She nodded, signalling to Ifan and Sian. ‘Help me! We must get him on the horse.’
She positioned the animal below the path, giving the reins to Dafydd where he sat. The youngsters helped her heave Tudor into the saddle, pushing his feet through the stirrups. She sprang up behind him, leaning him back against her, one arm around his waist to hold him in place, not knowing if he was dead or alive. With a nod from Dafydd, she urged the horse forwards, using her voice and heels to send it into a gallop, charging over the rough ground back towards the settlement, Taran running with her.
Her arrival was greeted with much consternation and questions shouted at her from all sides. She could notanswer them. She could think of nothing except Tudor and that he was slipping away from her with each passing second. She had Owain help her carry him into the croft while Rufus and two of the women went for the cart to go for Dafydd and the children. Inside the tiny building, Mamgi helped her remove Tudor’s chainmail so that they could see the extent of his wounds. She noticed with a pang of longing for him that the honeysuckle she had picked that morning was still entwined with his mail, but its narrow trumpet blooms were filled with his hot blood. To begin with, they both worked quickly, the old woman issuing quiet, sharp instructions; Rhiannon imploring her to have a care and yet hasten. Then, as the truth of his injuries was revealed, Mamgi fell silent. She stepped back. Rhiannon turned to her.
‘What are you doing? We must help him!’
‘Cariad,there is no helping him now,’ she said gently.
‘We must try! Mamgi, I beg you, help me save him. I won’t let him die,’ she sobbed, her tears falling freely now as she took his face in her hands. ‘Tudor! Tudor my love, do not leave me. Come back from the darkness. I am here, my love. I am here!’ she whispered, planting kisses on his bloodstained face, feeling his skin cold beneath her lips. Even as she held him she knew Mamgi was right. He lay lifeless, the chill ofdeath descending upon him. Despair gripped her, swiftly followed by rage. ‘Nooo! she screamed. It was a terrible sound that carried even beyond the thick stone walls of the croft, chilling the bones of all those who heard it.
Rhiannon stood up, her face wild with grief and anger.
‘Am I not a witch? Can I not use my magic? Now is the time it must serve me! Show me, grandmother. Show me what I must do to bring him back!’ she demanded.
‘No, child, that cannot be done.’
‘Do not tell me no!’ she shouted, grabbing the old woman by the shoulders and shaking her roughly. ‘What use have I for witchery that cannot save the man I love? Why am I chosen and given gifts to only half do what I must? Why am I sent strength to save him on the battlefield only to have to watch his spirit dim and fade here?’
‘You are a witch, not a necromancer! Your magic is not for conquering death!’
‘You told me I would have great power one day, that I would be Queen Witch. I need that power now! Where is my coven? Where are my fellow witches in my hour of need? Why have they abandoned me now?’ More quietly then she took Mamgi’s hands in hers. ‘I havenever asked anything of them until this minute. Please, grandmother, summon them. Let me speak to them and beg them for their help.’
‘It is too soon…’
‘No, Mamgi,’ she said, looking at Tudor’s pale body. ‘Soon it will be too late!’
The old woman thought for a moment longer and then nodded slowly. ‘Very well,’ she said calmly. ‘Very well.’ She leaned forwards and took Rhiannon’s knife from her belt.
Puzzled, Rhiannon took it from her. ‘What would you have me do with this?’ she asked.
‘Look closely at the hilt. Look at the twisting pattern carved there. Pay particular attention to the stone.’
‘But, this is the knife I have had for years.’
‘You know that it belonged to your mother. Your real mother. She made sure you would be given it because through this you will summon your fellow witches. The Grand Witches of the White Shadow have waited long winters to hear from you. Hold it up to the lamplight,cariad, and look deep into the stone in its handle.’
Rhiannon did as she was bid, staring at the night blue stone, with its distinctive uneven shape, as if a thin shard of it had been lost, searching for some sign, some revelation there, even though she had no notion of whatform it might take. For a long moment there was nothing, save the sound of activity outside the croft, and a ringing in her ears from her own, overwrought mind. She began to despair.
‘It does not work,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘We have to try something else. Should I not speak? Are there not special words I must use?’
‘It is in harmony with your heart and soul. You have only to turn your thoughts and wishes to it to be heard. Have patience, child.’
‘We have not time! Tudor…’ but then she saw it. The centre of the stone began to change colour, lightening so that it moved from dark to milky pale blue, and at the heart of this new lightness was a point of brightness like that of a star in a clear night sky, or the glint of sunlight on a dew drop. ‘Should I speak?’ she asked. ‘What should I say?’
‘Only wait and watch and listen.’
To do nothing was torment. Every moment that passed was another breath Tudor did not take, another heartbeat that did not stir his cooling blood. But she waited. And watched. And listened. At last she began to hear voices. There was nothing clear, more a chorus of whispers, high and urgent. And then the point of brightness on the knife seemed to grow and pulsate until it broke free of the jewel and floated up, expandingand swirling until it filled half the room. Rhiannon took a step back, searching the unnatural miasma for a person’s face, or perhaps a signal she could make sense of. Instead the voices grew louder, but no more discernible. Each seemed to be speaking in a different language. Next she glimpsed mouths moving as they spoke, or eyes, flashing and searching, or a hand reaching out as if to touch her. Slowly, as if she had learned in that moment to speak in tongues, the words began to make sense to her. Husky and sibilant, sentences formed from the multiple voices.
It can not be.
She should not demand it, she has not the right.
Such a thing is forbidden.
She asks too much!
Shame! Shame!
