‘Can you help me?’ she asks. ‘Are you able to serve your prince in this way?’
Now I understand. Clever woman indeed! By placing her malady in my hands she has ensured that any failure to produce an heir could be laid at my door. At the same time, she knows that, should I succeed and she give her husband his longed-for child, she will take the credit. She will be lauded and revered, her position secured. Perhaps she will even earn his love. But should I fail, should no babe appear, then the shortcoming will be mine, even if it must be put about secretly that she sought my assistance. She will no longer be seen as the sole reason for a childless marriage. It could even happen that in such a case Prince Brynach would cease to find my company so desirable. Could that be her hidden motive? Clever woman indeed, for I cannot refuse her.
I stand up and take my knife from its hook on the wall. Both women start, their eyes wide, their bodies taut. Quickly, I turn the knife in my hand so that the blade points toward me, and offer the handle to the princess.
‘Cut me a lock of your hair,’ I tell her.
She takes the knife, and Nesta fumbles with the pins securing her twisted hair. At last, some falls free.
‘You must cut it yourself,’ I explain.
She does so, with purpose, not taking some tiny wisp, but a bold hank. She means my magic to work, then, that much is plain.
I take the hair from her, coiling it tightly. In my wooden trunk I find a small leather pouch to keep the precious lock. Tying the drawstring firmly, I slide the pouch into the pocket of my tunic.
I remain standing and the others get to their feet.
‘Have you any instructions for me?’ Princess Wenna asks. ‘Is there any action I should take, anything…’
She casts her eyes down, and for the first, the only time, I see the vulnerable young woman beneath the mask of privilege and position.
I shake my head. ‘I will do what needs to be done,’ I tell her.
Outside we find Siōn blowing into his hands and stamping his feet against the cold. He is making so much noise all by himself I doubt he would have heard an approaching army. At the sight of us he becomes brisk and arrogant, taking his place beside the princess importantly.
The women pull up their hoods. Princess Wenna takes a velvet purse from her robe and offers it to me.
‘Your payment,’ she says, ‘for your trouble.’
It is as well that the darkness shades the expression on my face. There is a silence charged with my own anger and the expectation of the three who stand before me. When I speak, I am aware my ire colors the sound of my words. The princess knows well how to insult me, and chooses to do so with her nephew as witness, so that the slight will be reported back to Rhodri.
‘I work for Prince Brynach’s betterment,’ I tell her. ‘For his safety, for his favor. I require no pieces of silver. A seer cannot be hired for coin. My gifts are not for sale.’ As if to give weight to my sentiment, a heavy cloud swallows up the bright moon so that the blackness about us deepens. There is no more to be said. The princess gathers her pride and her followers and turns for the crannog. I stand and watch as the three figures melt into the night.
5
TILDA
A steady drizzle has rendered the landscape gray and blurred, so that Tilda is happy to be shut in her studio, turning her attention to her work. The feeble sunlight has compounded her lighting problems, however, so that she has resorted to candles and a storm lantern to light the space. She put a match to the fire in the wood-burning stove more than an hour ago, so that now the room is warm enough. Thistle, who has become her gray shadow, settles herself on the rag rug in front of the stove. The studio already has a familiar, cozy feel to it. Tilda sits in a dusty, glaze-stained chair by the patio doors, sketch book on her knee, attempting to reproduce the shapes and patterns she saw among the twisted branches of the crannog trees. She works with quick, confident strokes, her stub of soft pencil creating thick marks on the paper. She tries to recall the way the limbs of the trees entwined and crossed through and over one another.
As if winter winds have tied them in knots.
Her intention is to fashion her trademark large, bulbous pots, and to work onto them these intricate, flowing designs. She has not yet decided on colors. Should she use mottled, natural finishes, or opt for deep, rich glazes? As she chews her pencil in thought, her eyes look up from the page, so that she is unable to avoid staring directly at her cold, inert kiln. The sight of it brings home an inescapable fact. Without a reliable power supply, she cannot switch the kiln on or, should it work long enough to reach the needed temperature, risk firing her work inside it.
No power equals no firing. No firing, no pots. No pots, no money.