Excitement tightens her belly as she pushes the books to one side and grabs a block of drawing paper and a stick of charcoal. She works quickly, narrowing her eyes, making bold, fast strokes of smudgy black on the page as she strives to capture what it was she saw in the vision. The graceful arc of its neck. The proud bearing of its head. The deep-set, luminous eyes. The muscular limbs that powered it silently through the water. After half an hour of sketching she stares at her work, biting her bottom lip thoughtfully.
Yes. Or at least, almost. Won’t know until I go further. Too soon to tell.
Jumping from her stool, she hurries over to the bin of clay and takes out a large lump of the gritty brown earth. This binful has already been wedged and pummeled so that no air remains inside, so that it should not pop during firing and explode the piece. After a few moments of kneading and turning, the material is sufficiently malleable to be used. Tilda pauses, brushing her hair from her face with her arm, her hands already sticky with clay. The uneven light from the oil lamp glints off the inch of bracelet that peeps out of her shirt pocket. She nods.
‘Okay,’ she says to herself, to the slumbering dog and to any other souls who might be listening, ‘let’s begin.’
SEREN
They are not expecting me. As I walk toward the crannog amid the softening light of dusk I allow myself a small smile at the thought of their surprise. It would not do to become such a creature of habit that all my actions might be anticipated by others. Though, in truth, they should expect me, had they sufficient wits. The prince has, of course, met his infant daughter. He was so attentive throughout the months the babe grew within me, so happy at the prospect of at last having a child of his own, it was only natural that he should want to take her in his arms at the first opportunity. He bestowed such a look of love upon her that day that I am certain, in my heart, he will never turn from her. She cannot ever claim a place as princess, but short of this he will give her every honor, every protection, every care. It is not the prince I come to exchange words with this evening. I know there are whisperings, there is gossip, there are tongues wagging at every hearth hereabouts, concerning my child. Our child. I care nothing for the idle musings of people of no influence or importance. Tanwen, as time passes, will win over the people she will one day serve, I have no doubt of that. What concerns me now is the plotting and scheming of those who place themselves close to the prince. They continue to do their utmost to come between us. In this, they will not succeed. Nor will they ever convince him to denounce his daughter. The matter for me to address is this: When they come to see that he will not turn from us, and they recognize that more power lies with this babe—and therefore with me—than with all of them put together, when that moment arrives, Tanwen is in grave danger.
Although the late summer day has been warm I wear my red cloak, so that I am able to conceal my child snug and safe beneath it. She is not some entertainment for the villagers to gawk at. Let them wait. The guard on the causeway permits me to pass without questioning my right to do so, averting his own eyes from my steady gaze, then quickly looking again when he thinks I will not notice. I was once asked if being feared leads me to loneliness. My reply was that I have known no other way of being. Now, with the warm, smiling, bright-eyed result of my prince’s love held close to my heart, I would say that the fear of many serves only to heighten the experience of not being feared. So that the love I share with Prince Brynach, and the love I feel for my babe, is the deepest, the strongest, the most blissful love possible.
On the little island, people are going about their everyday business. With night approaching, mothers call in their children. Men who have livestock return from the fields: the shepherds leaving their sheep to sleep in the grassy meadows next the lake, the cattleman bringing the best of his beasts into the safety of the byre. Women walk briskly, their arms filled with firewood, or trudge beneath the weight of yoked pails of milk. The blacksmith tamps down his forge, taking care no stray ember or spark escapes to kindle a blaze among the dry wood of the palisades or the thick thatch of the roofs. A herding dog slinks around my heels, nervous of my confident stride but drawn to the snuffling sounds from beneath my cloak. I drop my hand to my side, low and still, and he sniffs it, wagging his tale in acceptance of the gesture of friendship. Smoke is already rising from the hole in the roof of the great hall. I can picture well the assembled company, gathered for their evening of talking, and eating, and drinking. It is in these close moments that syrupy words are poured warm and winning into my prince’s ear. It is the oldest, simplest magic: Give a man a bright fire to stare at, a tankard of fresh ale to drink, a place of comfort to take his ease and a bellyful of good meat, and he will listen to the rankest rubbish and think it sweet.