I am soon for my bed, but I become aware of footfalls along the path outside. I listen, head cocked. Three people. One striding bold and loud as only a young man can, rudely waking everything he passes. The others are softer. Women, I believe. I slip on my cape and step out of the hut. As I do so I am hailed by my visitors to warn me of their proximity, as if I were unaware of their approach! The youth I recognize as Siōn, the son of the princess’s brother, the family likeness marked with his green eyes and dark complexion, who is evidently accompanying his elders to afford them the enormous benefit of his protection. He steps to one side and stands feet apart, arms folded. His stance is arrogant, but his body is that of a boy, not yet hardened by years or the grit of manhood. The women come forward. Both wear deep hoods in some small effort to mask their identities, but the ruse is pointless, given the expensive fabric of the taller woman’s garb, and the stout girth of her companion. A simpleton in his cups would know them.
I stand tall. ‘Princess Wenna, good evening to you.’
‘Forgive us for disturbing you so late, Seren Arianaidd.’ Her use of my full name—not her habit—suggests she is eager to win my favor. She wants something from me, that much is plain. Her maid, Nesta—for it can be no other—stomps her feet against the cold and her mistress takes the point. ‘I would speak with you,’ the princess goes on. ‘Perhaps your house would afford us more privacy?’
And more warmth. I nod, holding open the door so that they may enter, but shaking my head when Rhodri’s boy attempts to join us. ‘We would all feel so much safer with you standing guard,’ I tell him, and he smiles happily, having not the wit to hear the mockery in my voice.
The room feels crowded with the three of us standing. I indicate the stool and bolsters and we arrange ourselves at comfortable distances from each other. The two women look about them, Nesta with her perpetual sneer, Princess Wenna with practiced blankness. She lowers her hood to reveal her hair coiled sleekly upon her head, a band of silver-threaded braid across her brow. She is beautiful, yet the prince does not love her. Does it gnaw at her heart, I wonder? Or does she care only for his affection because it makes her position more secure? Why has she come? Why has her maid agreed to accompany her? Nesta’s contempt for me is widely known. She is a wise woman of sorts, offering herbal remedies and assisting at births. All for a price, of course. Nesta sees the value of everything measured in silver. To her I am a rival in the business of cures, and she is jealous, both of my magic, and of my standing. And there is more besides, for she is the keeper of a knowledge of dark spells. Witchery of a dangerous kind, little known or practiced now. She has no call to use any of her talents, and she should be thankful for that. Such poisons and hexes as she has inherited would not endear her to anyone. Yet I know she resents my position of trust. She is envious of the respect afforded me. And she is no servant, in truth, but her mistress’s cousin, and, as such, is not given to unquestioning service. But still, the princess trusts her. What has compelled them to visit me? For does not Princess Wenna, too, have her own reason to despise me?
I push another stout log onto the fire, sending up a small shower of sparks. There is a moment of smoke before the bark begins to burn and new flames lick hungrily at the wood. I turn to the princess, waiting for her to speak. She meets my gaze—one of the few who will—and keeps her voice level.
‘I will not insult you by talking of trifles, Seren Arianaidd. I have come here to ask for your help because no other can give it.’
At this, Nesta fidgets and her sour face sours further.
‘How can I be of service, Princess?’ I ask.
She hesitates, the slightest in-breath, yet her composure does not falter.
‘Prince Brynach and I were wed four years past, but our union has not been blessed with children.’
Nesta can remain silent no longer. ‘I have said, my lady, ’tis not a question of time. Were you to follow my advice—’
‘I have had sufficient of your vile concoctions and undignified instructions!’ Princess Wenna cuts off her maid. ‘No more.’ She turns back to me. ‘The prince requires an heir, that is the fact of the matter. It is I who must provide him with one.’
So, she has come to me on this! This most personal of all business. And yet, of course, for a princess there is more than what is private to be considered. And nobody knows this better than Wenna. For if there is not love to bind her to her prince, and no child, then all that is left is the fickle bond of politics. Should it suit our leader to no longer be allied to his wife’s kin, what price for her slender crown then? How much has it cost her to seek my help? Pride might have stopped her. Or the desire not to admit her failing to me. But I am being foolish, for her barrenness is not a secret.