‘Why the sudden haste to leave, if your calling on our prophet was such a friendly event? Here, let me try that.’ He reaches into the basket and helps himself to a mouthful of bread. Nesta does not attempt to stop him, but I see her eyes widen.
‘Hywel,’ I say, ‘do not…’
But he is already chewing thoughtfully. He shrugs. ‘In truth it is good. Try . . ’ He takes the basket from Nesta and plunges his hand into it once more to fetch a piece of bread for me. But this time he cries out, frowning, snatching back his hand. ‘What is this?!’ he roars.
And then I see what it is. I see the two tiny wounds upon his flesh, neat and deep, where the fangs of a viper have pierced his skin. Chaos enfolds us. Hywel curses, clutching at his hand and letting go the basket. The soldier leaps from his horse, but knows not what he should do. The snake wriggles from beneath the discarded basket, sliding toward Tanwen.
Nesta cries out, ‘The babe!’
But I have no fear. My daughter watches the adder slither over her bare feet but she neither screams nor cries. She knows instinctively that this creature should be shown respect, but that it will not hurt her if she does nothing to scare it. The soldier has no such understanding and raises his sword. I would save the poor thing, but he is too swift and in a second has cut it in two. Hywel writhes on the floor, trying to take his knife from his belt to cut out the poison, but his agony is too great.
‘That is no ordinary snake!’ he bellows. ‘No viper ever gave such a bite! That witch has hexed the thing.’
I drop to my knees beside him, taking my own blade from my hip and slicing into the already purple flesh around the wound. But Hywel is right in what he says. This is no common poison. Nesta has done something to make the snake more powerful, has worked some wicked magic, dark and strong. The matter makes sense to me now, for the snake was intended for my hand, was meant to sink its fangs into my flesh, and she knew she would need something more deadly than a lowly adder to take my life. Behind me I hear her lumbering through the tall grasses as she tries to flee. Let her try. The soldier will soon have hold of her, and she will be dragged back to the crannog for justice. My concern is for Hywel.
‘Lie still,’ I tell him, as he tries to rise.
‘I never in my life fought a battle lying down!’ he argues.
‘This once you must!’ I push him firmly back onto the grass. ‘Cease struggling, Hywel. The poison must not be made to flow more quickly through your body.’ I steady my mind. I need to summon my witch’s strength, to cast my own spell to counter that of Nesta, but there is no time. No time to prepare a potion to help him. No time to call upon the old gods to assist me. No time to undo what has been done. Even now an evil stench begins to pour forth from Hywel’s hand, and his skin is turning blackish-brown down the length of his arm.
‘The crone has done for me!’ he yells through teeth clenched tight.
‘No! Only give me time…’
‘There is none.’ He clutches at my arm. ‘Seren Arianaidd, this death was meant for you! The woman brought that cursed creature to send you from this world. Argh!’ He breaks off, his face twisted in pain. I start to recite an ancient prayer of protection, tripping over the words I know so well in my haste to help him, to do something to ease his suffering. ‘Beware!’ he growls. ‘She will not have come without her mistress sent her. The princess wants you dead, girl. Be ever on your guard.’
‘I will have you to protect me awhile yet, Hywel,’ I tell him, placing my hands over his heart, calling on the magic of the lake and the gentle presence of the Afanc herself to come to my aid and rid this poor, dear man of the vile substance that seeks to silence him.
He shakes his head, wildly thrashing from side to side, foam flecking his beard, his eyes, burning, raging against death’s approach. He has been a warrior all his life, and knows nothing but to fight until his last breath. ‘God’s truth! Let that witch be put to death so she may do no more harm. Yet even then you must not turn your back on Wenna for an instant, for she will be ever waiting, dagger raised. The prince needs you. He needs the child. You cannot let down your guard. You must not. Give me your word!’
‘But Hywel…’
‘Your word!’
‘You have it!’
He beats his fist upon the ground, roaring, defying death to the very end. And at the last he does not seek comfort, does not search for pity, but raises his one good hand in a salute and bellows into the fading summer day, ‘Prince Brynach! My Prince! Prince Brynach!’ And even as light of life leaves his eyes his battle cry continues to echo, on and on, around the shores of the lake.