‘Good day to you, Prince Brynach,’ the princess’s brother hails his master cordially, bowing elaborately in his saddle, yet treats me as if I were not visible. He succeeds in deferring to his prince whilst wordlessly insulting me. Such subtle talents demonstrate skill born of a lifetime of diplomacy. ‘And what a very fine day it is.’
‘A fine day for a ride out,’ Brynach agrees, pointedly slipping his arm around my waist. The action is not lost on his brother-on-law, but he masters his displeasure and conceals it well.
‘Indeed,’ he agrees, ‘Siōn has a new horse and we wished to test his stamina. We took him atop Mynydd Moel and let him have his head.’ Here he pauses to beam proudly at his pimply offspring.
‘It is a well-formed animal,’ says Brynach.
‘It must have cost you dear,’ I point out.
Rhodri would prefer to ignore my comment, but his son’s vanity will not be easily controlled.
‘Quite so,’ he agrees brightly, ‘Father gave more gold for him than for any other horse he owns.’ Siōn crows, not seeing the flash of irritation on Rhodri’s face.
His father is forced to laugh in an offhand manner. ‘It is the way of parents, to indulge their sons,’ he says.
Brynach smiles and nods. ‘I look forward to spoiling my own child similarly very soon,’ he declares.
There is a crackling quality to the air around us. This is as close to a challenge on the subject of my baby’s place in the world as the prince has yet laid down. Rhodri, of all people, knows the importance Brynach will place on the child if it is a boy. Regardless of its illegitimacy, if this is the only son the prince is ever to sire, it may never become noble, but it will be his heir. Rhodri’s tactic is to continue to ignore my very existence.
‘Siōn,’ he gestures toward his son’s horse, ‘your mount is cooling and must be tended to.’ He turns a slippery smile in Brynach’s direction. ‘We will take our leave, my prince,’ he says with another bow, expertly making his horse back away as he speaks.
We watch them go. I feel Brynach’s arm tighten around me. I know he would protect me with his last breath. I pray it never comes to that.
15
TILDA
The night after the firing, Tilda finds it hard to sleep. The upstairs of the cottage is so cold she and Thistle opt for the sofa in the warm sitting room, keeping the fire well fed with logs. The woodshed is worryingly low, and Tilda knows she will have to restock it soon if she is to rely almost entirely on wood for her heating. She is aware that she could most likely restore the power supply, if only patchily, but finds herself reluctant to do so. She has become accustomed to working to the rhythm of the short winter days, functioning in the low light of candles and lamps, reading by the narrow beam of her battery headlamp and doing without the computer.
Am I hiding, being like this? Am I putting off reconnecting with the world? Am I building up reasons not to have my parents here? Do I want to hide from the world?
She has to admit to herself this is a possibility. After all, it would be useful to search the Internet for information about the body in the grave, about the crannog, about the people who lived around the lake centuries ago. And yet, she is resistant.
What don’t I want to see? What am I afraid of finding out?
She snuggles deeper under the duvet. Thistle gets up from her place in front of the somewhat blackened fireplace and climbs carefully onto the sofa.
‘Really? You think there’s room for both of us up here?’ Tilda protests mildly, secretly glad of the comforting company of the dog. Her emotions are in turmoil after her night with Dylan. If anyone had asked her, she would have said she wasn’t ready for another relationship; that her heart had not yet healed after losing Mat. And yet, being with Dylan had felt right. Had felt special. Had made her feel so much better. As if she had taken some crucial step. She knows that it is a step away from Mat, and that thought brings sadness with it, but in her heart she also knows such distance is inevitable. By clinging to the memory of Mat she is holding on to her grief. A twist of guilt knots her stomach.
Am I being disloyal? Is it too soon?
With a sigh she reaches out and strokes Thistle’s ears. ‘What d’you reckon, girl? Make any sense to you?’ In the uneven light from the fire she fancies she can make out the dog’s patient expression. ‘No need to be jealous, daft pooch. You should like him; he was the one who got you out of that pink collar.’
She closes her eyes again and lets herself replay the events of the previous night in her mind. She remembers slipping the bracelet onto her arm. She can clearly feel the cool metal against her skin. And then so many conflicting thoughts and sensations come flooding back to her it is hard to make sense of them. The blinding white light. The feeling of being lifted off her feet. Dylan being thrown against the wall. The ringing noise. The swirling spinning that almost made her pass out. The fire, growing and leaping from the hearth, threatening to set the whole room, the whole house alight. And the vision. This … version of herself, standing so tall and serene and strong.