The Silver Witch(17)

‘Ah, well, people in the ninth century had a different idea of scale, you see. The population was so much smaller then, and construction so much more of a challenge. It must have taken a great deal of time and effort to build. Layer upon layer of stone to begin with and then timbers laid on top, bound together. Imagine making a base sufficiently stable to withstand buildings and people and their livestock.’

‘They kept animals on there too?’

‘Indeed.’ He snatches up a pencil and a piece of paper and begins to make a sketch of what the settlement would have looked like. ‘There was the long hall, here, like this. A building about the size of a barn, if you can picture that, single story, but quite a high roof, sloped to keep the good Welsh rain off it. They would have used the hall for important gatherings, celebrations, meetings of various visiting princes and so on. Historians have established that the palace was built for Prince Brynach, who was ruler of the region at the time. He and his family and extended family and guards would have lived there. And, of course, if the community were to come under attack the rest of the villagers would leave the shore and hurry onto the crannog to take refuge in the hall. We think there was another building here, probably providing living quarters for more soldiers and their families, with room for some of the more prized beasts to be stabled. Next to that, at an angle’—he squints through his glasses as he makes rough marks on the paper’—like this. That would have been the blacksmith’s workshop. Very important.’

‘For horseshoes, I’m guessing.’

‘Partly, though not all the horses would have been shod. What made the smithy so crucial was that this was where weapons were forged. Swords, daggers, shields, helmets and so forth … Those were dangerous times. The prince had to be ready to defend his territory.’

‘You certainly seem to know a lot about it.’

‘Oh—’ he shakes his head—‘a historian can never know enough about his pet subject. The lake has always fascinated me, as it did my wife. Greta was an anthropologist.’ He waves an arm at the more exotic artifacts in the room. ‘Most of what you see here was collected on her travels. It was she who first fell in love with the lake. She insisted we move here. Said she felt an affinity with the place. And I’m very glad of it. The lake provided us with so much to think about. People have lived here for centuries. Millennia, in fact. It is such an ideal spot for a settlement, d’you see? Fresh water, fish, the shelter of those hills over there, fertile soil; it has it all. Prince Brynach, when he built the crannog for his royal dwelling, well, he knew what he was about. And, of course, there are so many lovely legends and myths attached to the place. It has its own magic, I think it fair to say. One could study it a lifetime and not know everything.’ He returns to the tea tray. ‘Now, sugar? Milk? Chocolate biscuit? And perhaps you’ll tell me what it is that a ceramic artist does?’

Half an hour passes swiftly in the old man’s company. As Tilda sits on the squishy sofa, her feet curled beneath her, the reviving tea and the friendly conversation with the professor have such a restorative effect upon her that she soon feels quite differently about what she thinks she saw at the lake. Their talk has taken them from the history of the area to the abundance of wild birds that now live there, and the fact that the farside is a thriving example of local tourism, with its campsite and boats for hire and sailing lessons. It all sounds to Tilda so reassuringly normal, and convinces her that her fanciful mind had been working with her tired body to trick her, nothing more.

Not enough breakfast. Pushing myself too hard. Too much time spent on my own.

As she forms the thought she remembers she does not, actually, live alone anymore. She has a shaggy hound as a housemate, one that might be in need of letting out by now. She puts her cup on the tray and stands up.

‘I ought to get on,’ she says. ‘Leave you in peace.’

‘My dear girl, I have nothing but peace, these days. Your visit was a most welcome distraction from the day-to-day. Please do drop in on me again.’

They make their way into the hall, where Professor Williams notices that the clock is no longer working.

He peers at it, tapping the glass that houses the face. ‘Strange. It’s usually such a reliable timepiece.’

Tilda watches him as he opens the casing and adjusts the weights and chains inside. She is aware of some of her earlier anxiety returning. ‘Perhaps it needs winding up,’ she suggests, even though she knows nothing about clocks, and is fairly certain the professor is the sort of man who would look after such a fine antique with great care.