Suddenly, as if bored of the whole business, she dropped her hand, and the Serb, gasping, dropped to the floor. A more normal colour began to return to his sweat-drenched face.
‘I am surrounded by idiots,’ she muttered, before turning to her brothers again. ‘If you cannot bring him to me, bring me the girl.’
Yoksa and Brane exchanged anxious glances.
Brane tried to protest. ‘But, Dragica, the girl is…’
‘I don’t want to hear your excuses. I am calling a gathering. I will be able to tell them we have this situation under control, or somebody vill pay the price for your failure.’
With the threat hanging in the air that still smelled of singed flesh, she picked up her bag and walked over to her father. ‘Come, Papa. We go to eat,’ she said, taking his arm and leading him out of the room.
Gloucestershire, 1190
The grass of the paddock was worn short from grazing, the summer drought hindering new growth. As the horse’s hooves thudded rhythmically upon the dry ground they kicked up puffs of dust. Tudor sat deep in the saddle, relaxed, responding to the horse’s movements, keeping only the lightest contact with hissteed’s mouth. He used his legs to turn the animal this way and that, adding slight pressure on its glossy brown neck with the reins, all the while urging it forward with his heels and seat. The horse was young, still green, with much to learn and little time in which to learn it. Tudor clicked his tongue and the horse turned his ears to listen.
‘Gently now,’ he murmured, keeping the horse in a flowing canter, bending it this way and that, turning at the limit of the flat piece of ground, pivoting it round on its hocks. ‘Good!’ he patted its neck with his free hand. His sword hand. His mount must be able to understand all his commands and perform the requested manoeuvres with the smallest of signals from him. A shift of his body weight. A little pressure from his lower leg. A whistle. In battle, he would be busy killing those who would be intent on killing both him and his horse. If either of them were to stay alive, they must be in perfect harmony. He turned at the top of the field and repeated the exercise. And again. At last the reins became wet with the horse’s sweat and they slowed to a walk. ‘Enough for today,’ he told it, leaning forward to tweak its ears. The horse snorted, dropping its head as it relaxed.
‘Tudor!’ Maryanne called from the edge of the field. ‘Tudor, come and eat!’ She smiled at him, the baby on her hip.
He swung down from the horse and went to her, the animal following meekly. He kissed his wife, taking the child from her.
‘Tudor, you’ll have her filthy,’ Maryanne chided him.
‘She doesn’t care,’ he said, sitting the girl up on the horse’s back. ‘She’s going to be a great horsewoman, aren’t you, eh?’ The child gurgled with glee, grabbing a tiny fistful of mane. Not for the first time Tudor wondered at his luck at having a family. For many men-at-arms the opportunity for wife and child never presented itself. Now, though, with the crusade about to take him far away, he had cause to question if he had done the right thing in marrying Maryanne. Was it fair to leave them to an uncertain future? Was it right to ask any woman to build her life around a man who could leave her a widow and their children orphans with one unlucky side step or sword fall? He stroked the child’s dark curls. She was already so like him. It was fascinating to see her grow, to watch her learn new things, to witness aspects of himself and Maryanne revealed in her likes and dislikes. He took her in his arms again and kissed the back of her neck, breathing in that scent unique to new life, but somehow common to children,puppies and foals alike. He closed his eyes, committing that smell to memory, storing it up for some distant future date when the conjuring of it might just give him that extra determination to live and return home that would save his life.
The Black Mountains, Wales, 1190
As she tended her garden in the home she had known for so long, it was hard for Rhiannon to avoid thinking of her mother. Even after she had discovered the truth of her birth, she could never imagine calling her anything else. She was the woman who had raised her, the woman whose voice she heard with words of wisdom and encouragement even after so many years. Now, with the garden of the Great House in Cwmdu lovingly restored and tended, Rhiannon was confident her mother would have approved of the changes she hadmade. It was true, she might not have selected so many wild and rambling plants, and would have given more space to roses, but on the whole, she would have been pleased. This small thought gave Rhiannon solace. Being a witch enchanted to live a very long life had brought with it many challenges, some she found more surprising or bewildering than others. Undoubtedly, the greatest of these was living with the loss of loved ones. For each lifetime she would live, she would see her family, her friends, her coven, her neighbours, grow old and die. And she would be left to carry on. She had learned the truth about grief: it does not fade, it only settles. It becomes a part of you, embedded, carved into your heart, and you carry it with you always. There were days when it felt too heavy a burden to bear. Like the day loyal Dafydd had drawn his last breath. Like the day she had held for the last time Little Bronwen, a woman in her seventies when she had died. Like the day she had said her final farewell to Mamgi. Loosing her friend and mentor had temporarily unmoored her. It had been an easy passing, in the very garden where she now walked, and that gave her some comfort. In her final days she had like to be carried to a bed among the flowers and would lie there, quite content, listening to the birds, waiting for her time to come. Rhiannon let her hand brush through the feathery heads of thecolourful nigella blooms as she remembered the grandmother of the village fondly.
Her memories of Tudor were never so calm, never so soothing. The thought of his death, of losing him, still took her breath away at times. On those occasions, she had to remind herself that his loss was not permanent. She had struck a bargain with the Grand Witches, and they would keep it, that she knew. It was, however, up to her to hone her connection with him so that she could sense his rebirth. So that she could find him. She was painfully aware that she had already missed a lifetime. Her ability to detect his footstep on the earth was slow to mature and had not had the strength to register his life until the moment of his death. He had, she later discovered, died in a sword fight, defending his master to the last, as any good knight would do. It was the abrupt and violent nature of his death that had sent shock waves powerful enough for her to detect. All she could do after that was wait. Continue with her life’s work, practice her craft, improve her gifts, and wait. And now, at last, her patience had been rewarded. For almost a year now she had been aware that he lived again. Each time she felt a tremor of the atmosphere, a sound that was silent and yet sang briefly in her ear, a trembling of the rhythm of her own heart, she was reassured that he lived. Somewhere. At what age andwith what purpose she could not tell. But this time, she was certain, she would find him.
Another thing she had learned in the century since Tudor died was that brooding was a path to madness. Purpose was all. With a fortifying breath, she walked along the herb bordered path and into the house. The building had not changed significantly since her father’s day. There was still a main hall where most business and living was conducted. To the right of the front door a smaller room served as a kitchen. Rhiannon ascended the flight of wooden stairs that led to the upper floor, which still housed the bedchamber for the family of the house. And an unusual family it was. Rhiannon, as Lady of the Black Valley, lived to the expectations of her status with a fine bed, wall hangings, candle sticks and rugs in her own room. The window seats now had fat cushions and she still sat there the better to make use of the light. The main difference now was that she did not do so for tedious needlework, but to study whatever book she had lately been able to find. It was a source of joy for her that she had now the time and resources to read. She found she had an appetite for knowledge, and was grateful for the tutoring her mother had insisted she receive as a child. Mamgi had explained that this was in part a result of her elevation as a witch of the White Shadow. This awakening of herinnate magic, of her true self, had also sparked a desire to grow, to understand, to develop her skills in all manner of ways. The two smaller rooms on the first floor were taken by her two maids, Dilys and Eleri, and her manservants, Ewan and Dafydd. Anywhere else such a collection of people would have raised eyebrows. As the whole of Cwmdu consisted of members of her coven, it was accepted as perfectly respectable and practical.
As Rhiannon picked up a book there came a knock at the door and Dilys entered the room. With her green eyes and shock of red hair, she had the look of her great grandfather about her. Her mother and grandfather had passed the distinctive colouring down through the generations, and Rhiannon had been thankful for the connection with Rufus and with her own childhood. If grieving for lost loved ones was the highest price to pay for being what she was, living with their descendants was the greatest balm.
‘Good morning, Dilys. What has you so bright eyed?’
‘My Lady, Eleri says you have promised we may go to see the new castle today! Is this true? I have so longed to see it.’ The girl was too excited to stand still.
Rhiannon smiled. ‘Yes, we will go together when you have finished your chores.’
‘All done!’
‘Already?’
‘Oh, my Lady, it sounds wondrous! Eleri’s father says it is the finest stone building for fifty miles. And there is a huge oven in the kitchen, and windows for looking in all directions!’
‘Calm yourself, girl. The point of such a construction is that it resists the march of time. It will still be there this afternoon.’ She laughed at the girl’s impatience. In truth, she herself was keen to see the finished castle. The plan to replace the old wooden structure with stone had been a sensible one, but it had been a long time in the doing of it. The new castle would provide the perfect lookout to defend the valley as well as a stronghold in case of attack. While under her care, the region had been peaceful so far, but she knew better than most how much darkness and violence stirred throughout the land. She knew, too, that the time had come to leave her family home in the village of Cwmdu. Her coven would be safer and more effective in the Tretower castle. The villages were barely more than two miles apart, but it would be a wrench to finally move from the house where memories of her parents still lingered in every room.
Rhiannon put the book she was holding back on the table. She was on the point of fetching her shawl when she felt a lightening of her consciousness. A dizzinessand sense of anticipation that was now familiar to her. It was unmistakably the call of one of the grand witches. A shiver of excitement ran through her body. She went quickly to the wooden box beside her bed and lifted the lid. Before she had even moved the cloth that wrapped her silver dagger, she could see the glow of its blue stone shining as it pulsated with its own otherworldly light. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the knife and held it up. Behind her, Dilys gasped. It was not the first time the maid had witnessed the workings of the white shadow magic, but each time was as astonishing as the last. Rhiannon moved to the centre of the room and lifted the dagger up so that its own illumination caught the sunlight falling through the window. The confluence of the two light sources did not merely double their strength but multiplied them tenfold. Dilys cried out and threw her arm over her face to shield her eyes, but Rhiannon needed no such protection. As a witch of the white shadow herself, the light was nourishment to her and could never hurt her. It was cool and soothing and loving and filled her with joy. Into the pale blue light came images, visible only to her. The first made her heart leap, for the face she saw clearly belonged to Tudor. He was not looking at her, but away into the distance. He appeared to be surrounded by a wasteland, devoid of trees or streams orhouses. Her soul ached to reach out and touch him, to make him see her or sense her, but she knew she could not. She was grateful for this glimpse of him, confirming as it did that he lived. With brutal abruptness his face vanished. For a moment all she could see were swirling colours. Slowly the blue light altered hue, merging with darker shades and warmer tones. She saw golds and umbers and vibrant reds. She could smell spices, something unfamiliar, rich and wonderful. The colours moved until at last another image formed. Another face. This one was also known to her, but in a very different way. As the visage of one of her fellow witches came into focus, she found herself locked in his intense and ancient gaze. His features were fine and angular, with deep set, mesmerising eyes. He wore an elaborate and beautiful headdress, a turban of the most sumptuous crimson and orange fabric, threaded through with gold and beaded with tiny, blood red garnets. At the centre, above his forehead, was set a single, flawless ruby. The grand witch did not speak aloud, and yet she heard his thoughts, heard the message he had come to give her.
I will keep him safe.
And then, in a heartbeat, the vision ceased. The image vanished. The colours and lights and their attendant sensations disappeared. Rhiannon fell to her knees, shocked to find herself crying.
Dilys knelt beside her, anxious and afraid for her beloved mistress. ‘My Lady, are you unwell? What is it? Are the tidings so terrible?’
She shook her head, eager to reassure the girl but needing to take a moment to steady herself. She wiped away her tears and stood up, squeezing Dilys’s hand.
