And yet, of course, her husband has a child.
Our child.
Today I have taken my daughter out fishing on the lake. She is nearly a year now, well-grown, with a head of spun-silver hair, eyes bright as diamonds, and already teetering on her feet. In the canoe she enjoys the feeling of swift movement as we paddle through the water, and later she will be rocked to sleep curled up in the bottom of the boat. She is at home near, on, or in the lake, and that is as it should be. This is our favored hour, with the sun dropped behind the mountains, the cool of the early evening, the softened light, the day grown lazy and yawning into twilight. Only the fish are busy now, nipping at buzzing flies that hover above the surface of the water.
‘Not too far, Tanwen,’ I tell her as she leans over the side of our little boat to dip her fingertips in the water. She smiles up at me, and I see her father in that smile. I named her White Fire, for it suits both her appearance and her nature. A tug on the line I hold in my hand alerts me to a catch. I wait until I am sure the fish has taken the bait, and then quickly pull in the line, hand over hand, holding it high at the end so that the fine young perch dangles and flips in the air. Tanwen laughs and claps as the dappled fish showers her with droplets of water. I lower it to my feet and strike its head one clean blow with the handle of my knife. It lies still. Tanwen is not distressed by this. She has witnessed the transformation from life to death, creature to food, so many times. She understands the order of things, and she is fast learning her own place within it.
A movement on the shore takes my attention. Brynach has come to find us. He stands tall, a strong, dark figure in a woodland lake of bluebells.
‘Look, little one, there is your father,’ I tell my daughter as I pick up the paddle and steer the boat across the lake. Tanwen gurgles happily as we draw closer to where he stands. He has tied his horse to a tree and waits for us, watching us closely. Or rather, watching Tanwen. Was ever a father more adoring of his child? When the boat reaches the shallows he can wait to longer, and wades into the water to greet us.
‘Here come my fisher-women! What have you caught for your supper, daughter?’ he asks her, grasping the prow of the canoe and scooping Tanwen from her seat with one strong arm.
I lift up the shining fish. ‘Enough for three,’ I tell him. The invitation to supper is as much a challenge as an offer of hospitality. I do not fight for his company only for myself now. I know that Wenna and Rhodri do their best to find ways to keep him from us.
He steadies the boat while I climb out. ‘If it can be served without a helping of rancor I will join you,’ he says. When I do not answer, he regrets his words and leans close as I tie the boat to its stake. He nuzzles my neck. ‘Time spent with you is ever more memorable than time spent elsewhere.’
I push him away, more playful than sulking. ‘Is my cooking so exceptional?’
‘It is not,’ he concedes. ‘So it is a mystery why I cannot stay from you without feeling hungry.’ He grabs me again and nips at my ear, jiggling Tanwen as she sits in the crook of his arm, making us both smile.
He picks a bluebell for her, handing her the pretty flower before he sits our child in his saddle, and we walk side by side as he leads the horse slowly back to my house. When I have rekindled the fire and set the fish to cook, he takes something from his saddlebag and offers it to me. It is a small object, wrapped in a piece of cloth. The wrapping itself is so carefully stitched, worked in patterns of animals with thread of gold and red and blue, that I am content to admire it without giving in to my curiosity over what it conceals.
‘This is beautiful indeed, my prince. There is silk here, is there not?’
He smiles. ‘The cloth is for you, my seer. A token of my love. A keepsake. Its contents are for Tanwen.’
I unfold the silky needlework and take out a smooth, heavy piece of gold, the glint of which causes me to gasp. It is a torc, fashioned with such care and artistry, I have not seen its like in my life. It bears carvings showing two running hares and a hound. Their legs, tails and heads are entwined and twisted, so that they continue on and on, with no beginning or end.
‘Oh.’ I find my voice at last, turning the torc over in my hand, marveling at it. ‘My prince, such a gift…’
‘It pleases you?’
I look up at him and his face is that of a young boy, desperate for praise, so eager to please, his expression moves me more than I dare tell him. I smile and nod, and he leans over me, pointing.
‘Here, this hare, that is you, see the lithe limbs and the look of courage greater than on the face of any warrior? This smaller one, that is our little witch, springing forward into life.’