The Silver Witch(53)

One of the minstrels takes up a ram’s horn and blows a long, clear note. Prince Brynach and his party are come. A cheer, hearty and sincere, greets him as he enters the hall, the princess on his arm. They process toward the top table, followed by Rhodri and Siōn, his lickspittle son. His loyal swordsman, Hywel is here, of course, though he does not look at ease with such formality, forced as he is into an uncomfortably tight tabard. Following on, Nesta basks in her mistress’s position. How secure does she feel in that, I wonder? The prince pauses when he draws level with me.

‘Seren Arianaidd,’ he nods, and I bow low. He reaches out and takes my hand, bidding me rise. There is a sudden hush. Has he forgotten where he is? Who he is? A prince might take the hand of a highborn lady, perhaps, such as the wife of another prince, or a relative of his own wife, but not my hand! I am not only a woman of no rank, I am Prophet and Witch. To touch me is to connect with all those dangerous and magical things that I hold within me. Is this a deliberate crossing of a well-guarded boundary, or simply a mistake? I am unable to decide. ‘We are honored to have you as our guest,’ he declares, not only to me, but to the whole of the hall. It is clear he is making a point of underlining his allegiance to me. Of my importance to him. He turns to address the gathering, and still he holds my hand! Beside him the princess tenses but does not otherwise let her thoughts show. Nesta purses her lips. The prince raises his free hand for quiet, but this is not necessary. An astonished silence has already filled the great hall. ‘This day would not have come about were it not for the wisdom of our Seer. It was her vision that prompted me to take action. Her seeing told of the downfall of the realm, of the destruction of our crannog. I heeded her warning. I sought counsel with my advisors’—here he pauses to incline his head at Rhodri, who is already puffed up like a bullfrog—‘and we found a path to peace. Thanks to the skills of our Prophet we have arrived at this moment without bloodshed.’

There is a spontaneous cheer, born not so much of joyous respect, but of relief for the explanation for the prince’s curious behavior toward me. He lets go my hand and moves on. The princess never for one second loses her composure, though still she manages to treat me to a glance colder than the winter’s day outside. Nesta glares at me as she passes, which makes me smile, much to her annoyance. As they take their seats, Rhodri whispers something in his sister’s ear, whilst not taking his eyes from my face. I swear if that man were sliced with a blade he would not bleed blood, but ooze bile.

And so the drinking and feasting and dancing get under way. I am given a seat at the end of the high table, elevated, yet separate, so at least this convention is upheld. There is ale aplenty, and soon tongues, belts and minds alike are loosened, so that raucous laughter and loudly recounted tales compete with the singing of the minstrels and the determined playing of the musicians to fill the smoky space. The drums, whistles and pipes struggle to make themselves heard. The food is very fine, and I confess, despite my resistance to such organized jollity, I enjoy my expertly seasoned meat and light, crusty bread. I take some ale, but only a little. I have no wish to lose my wits in such company.

After almost two hours of merriment, when some of the smaller children have fallen asleep with their full bellies, curled up on straw in the corner of the hall, the adults take to dancing. The maids are painfully aware of themselves, torn between their shyness and their desire to make an impact on a possible husband. The young men are equally awkward, but some bolder than others, forgetting how unmanly they might look trotting about to a tune if it means they can woo the girl of their choice. Wives and husbands make the most of a rare chance to enjoy each other without the worry of children or work. The prince dances with the princess, the pair a picture of restrained and courtly elegance. No one dares ask me to dance, and I am glad of that. Another hour passes in this manner. Some of the frailer adults join the infants in belching slumber. Gradually the order of the assembly crumbles so that all mix and talk and joke together, regardless of rank or age. Indeed, I’d wager some are so much in the thrall of the ale they do not know who it is they speak to. In the midst of this muddle, I become aware of a presence by my side and find Prince Brynach has come to stand beside me. A glance tells me Wenna is at the far end of the room, being given instruction on the playing of a lyre. Nesta remains in her seat, watching me.

‘Seren Arianaidd.’ He keeps his voice low in an effort to maintain some privacy, but in truth there is too much rowdiness, too much commotion all around us, for anyone to hear our conversation.