The Silver Witch(8)

I make the short walk from my own house to the wooden causeway swiftly and silently. Most have crossed the water to the crannog already, so that the solitary guard watches me warily as I pass. He is the only one on the narrow wooden crossing that links the island to the shore to witness my arrival. The sight of me makes him start, makes him stare, then quickly look away again. It is a common reaction to my appearance. At least I have no need to identify myself, and he steps aside wordlessly to let me pass. The smaller buildings are quiet—the smithy, the barn, and the house with its byre—all their occupants having gone into the hall to take their places. The prince’s horses are at rest in their stable; the long-horned bull slumbers, head low; tired working dogs are too weary to bark. I wait outside the hall and listen. Hywel Gruffydd, the prince’s stalwart captain, is up on his hind legs, barking gruff words of welcome at the gathering, reminding them of the greatness of their ruler, informing them of recent gains in territory or status for the prince, and bidding them salute his wise leadership and bravery. His words bring forth an easy cheer. Hywel falls quiet, and even from this side of the heavy oak door I can picture him setting his broad rump on the seat to his master’s right, shifting his weight to one side, as is his habit, to ease the pain in his fattening leg. He is not the warrior he once was, though it would be a foolish man who chose to remind him of the fact. And now people stand, in turn, those who have come with a question, a quarrel to be solved, a dispute over livestock, a broken promise, an accusation of theft, a plea for alms. They pick their words with care when addressing their prince, but the music of their voices is strained, their throats tightened with anger or heartache. If others interrupt to argue or shout down the complainant, they are swiftly silenced by Hywel, who will have them dragged from the hall if they do not conduct themselves as they should.

So Prince Brynach listens. I know he listens, though I still stand without. I close my eyes to see him more clearly, his strong body finely robed, his crown upon his head, his eyes thoughtful, his expression purposefully blank. He will guard his own thoughts, not letting them show on his handsome face. He is not afraid to let others see his passions or his cares, but he knows he must appear more than a mere man to his people. He is their prince, their protector, their provider, their wise man, their shelter and their sword. He must not reveal himself to be as they are.

Yet I see the truth. See the man who is flesh and blood, soul and heart. See the truth he veils from others.

I judge the moment right and make my entrance, flinging the door wide and striding into the hall. The guards draw their swords but stay their hands the instant they recognize me. All eyes turn toward me and I level my gaze at as many as will meet it. The quiet that greets me is a marrying of respect and fear with its mistress, hatred, though none would profess such a thing. Even Hywel will silence his blustering. I am permitted to walk to the center of the gathering and stand before my Prince. He inclines his head, a gesture of cool regard. I dip my staff and bow low, so that I am lower than my chief, though the farseeing eyes of my wolf-pelt headdress will remain level with his own. There is no other man living I would defer to in such a way. And this he knows.

‘Seren Arianaidd,’ he says, ‘you are welcome. We are honored that you grace us with your presence.’

I straighten and look about me. While the prince’s words are sincerely uttered, there are many here who would wish me as far away as their imaginations could send me. And the most ardent of my detractors sits in the finely carved seat to the left of our ruler. Princess Wenna. Unlike her husband, she wears her opinions plainly for all to see, so that now her beautiful, highborn face and her eyes, green as the leaves of young holly, are darkened with her loathing for me. By her side sits her toad of a brother, Rhodri, whose refined exterior hides a warty soul. He is a man I would not trust to mind a cooking pot, let alone a princedom, and yet Prince Brynach, out of loyalty to the princess, in truth, trusts him with the royal coffers. One day Rhodri brother-of-the-princess will let slip his mask.

‘Won’t you sit with us?’ The prince asks. He summons a page. ‘Fetch wine for Seren Arianaidd.’

The boy scurries to do his master’s bidding, but I shake my head.

‘I come not to drink, but to speak,’ I tell him.

There is an uneasy silence in the room now.

‘We are always ready to hear your words,’ the prince assures me with no more formal courtesy than is expected of him.

‘I bring a warning.’

At this, Hywel cannot stop himself asking what they are all wondering, ‘You have had a seeing?’