The Winter Witch (16 page)

And now he has Morgana as his wife, and his feelings are further confused. He runs a hand through his hair. He is tired. Tired of how complicated his relationship with Morgana is proving to be. Tired of trying to ignore, or make sense of, his wife’s strange ways. Tired of trying to do the right thing, and be patient and understanding, and struggling to deal with her wordlessness. A characteristic that has, in part, resulted in the loss of almost his entire herd. And he is tired of having to make all decisions regarding their future on his own. Whilst it might fall to him, as husband, as master of Ffynnon Las, and as head drover, to make difficult choices, he wishes, somehow, that he felt less alone in all these things. He had hoped, despite the obvious obstacles, that he would find a companionship with Morgana that would remove the loneliness he has suffered these past three years. And yes, there have been moments when he has felt close to her; when he has glimpsed a possible warm, supportive, loving future for them together. But now he feels defeated by the mountain he must climb to make his marriage work. To make his business work. To make anything in his life work.

“I should go,” he says, more abruptly than he intended. He stands up, and finds he has drunk more wine than is good for him, causing his head to spin as he rises. Isolda is quickly at his side.

“Must you leave? It is still early, not yet dark,” she points out.

He turns to face her. She is standing very close to him now, so close that he can feel the warmth of her, sense the powerful desire within her. They stand in silence, but it is not a quiet moment, filled as it is with unspoken thoughts and needs and wishes. She lays a hand upon his chest and he can feel his own heartbeat pounding beneath her palm. His desire frightens him, so that he casts his eyes down, affecting a protective formality.

“Forgive me, I thank you for your hospitality, but I must leave. Morgana will be waiting for me.”

“Do you think so? Do you really believe she is even now at the window, watching the empty road, eagerly awaiting your return?”

There is a note of scorn in her voice which he does not care for. Her words are all the more unpalatable because he fears she is right; that Morgana is not missing him, but indeed is glad of his absence. Relieved by it. He knows Isolda is challenging him, daring him to speak truthfully of the problems in his marriage. Willing him to turn to her, to find comfort, to find passion, with her. Whether or not she sees the refusal in his eyes he cannot be certain, but what she says next takes him completely by surprise.

“Besides, Cai, there is another matter I wished to talk to you about. I am astute enough to know that any farmer, any
porthmon,
suffering such a loss of livestock as yourself, well, he would struggle to produce a financially viable drove under such circumstances. I am no businesswoman, but I understand a little of these things. Being a widow, on my own, I have had to learn the ways of the world, and that includes some of the harsher facts concerning money. I am fortunate that my late husband left me well provided for. More than that, in fact. I shall come to the point. I want to make you the offer of a loan.”

Seeing his shock she holds up her hand before continuing.

“No, please, do not turn me down without considering the proposition. I am prepared to lend you what you need to purchase sufficient stock to turn the profit you had been anticipating before the tragedy which befell you.”

“Isolda, I couldn’t possibly…”

“
Please,
do me the courtesy of at least pondering the proposal for a day or two. I only wish to help you.”

Cai marshals his whirling thoughts. The money would be a godsend, that is the first thought that comes to him. It would indeed ensure the best chance of a profitable, successful drove. That he does not wish to put himself in a position beholden to Isolda is the second thought that darts about his mind. What, he wonders ungallantly, would she expect in return? And what would others think of such an arrangement? Indeed, what would Morgana think? He is surprised to find that this last consideration matters to him almost more than the others. At last he nods, a little stiffly.

“It is a kind offer,” he says, “and one I promise to think about sensibly before responding.” He lifts her hand and bows over it briefly, avoiding her searching gaze, before taking his leave.

Outside the rain has stopped and he is grateful for the cool, fresh air, and the long walk home. He wants to arrive at Ffynnon Las with a clear head and his humor improved. With each stride he attempts to shut his mind to the very real temptations Isolda has put before him, and to train his thoughts to home, to Morgana, to the life he has made and must now take responsibility for, however difficult. His head is still fuzzy from the wine, and his temper disconsolate. At once the uncertainty of the future weighs upon him. He had started to feel foolish for having drunk and dined in the grandeur of Isolda’s home when he should have been applying himself to the question of how to ensure the coming drove is not a complete failure. And now he has been offered a solution precisely because he had done just that. Even in his befuddled state he knows the fact remains: If he does not succeed in turning around his finances, there is a very real danger he could lose Ffynnon Las. The idea is unthinkable. Could his own weakness, the time he spent wallowing in his grief for Catrin, his poor judgment in moving the herd in a thunderstorm, could these things, could
he
really lead to the end of all his father and his grandfather had worked for over so many long, hard years? It seems even in choosing a wife he cannot be relied upon for sound decision making, for had not Morgana been, in her way, also to blame for the situation in which they now found themselves? And had not he chosen to overlook her
lack,
as Mrs. Cadwaladr had called it? These thoughts swirl round and round in his head so much that by the time he reaches home, the grubby sky bruising under the touch of twilight, he has a fearful pain behind his eyes.

Inside he finds the house in darkness, no fire burning in the kitchen hearth, nor any lamp left lit to welcome him home. Bracken jumps down from the window seat and wags a gentle greeting, but Cai brushes past him, helping himself to the brandy from the top of the dresser. Such is his mood he does not even trouble to find a glass, but slumps on the settle and swigs directly from the bottle. With each mouthful his desperation increases. How has it come to this? Is he to finish up like Llewellyn Pen-yr-Rheol? What sort of wife has he saddled himself with, that has neither conversation nor any social graces? Why must he accommodate all her increasing strangeness, when she gives so little in return? On impulse he gets up and strides from the room and up the stairs. He does not go to his own bed, but crosses the landing to Morgana’s room. He turns the handle and pushes open the door. He has not taken care to be quiet, but, for once, she is sleeping deeply and has not heard him. He steps over to the bed and looks down at her. At once all his anger, all his rage, all his blame and harsh judgment of her disappear. She looks so young, so pretty, so fragile. He feels such a loathing of himself for harboring unjustly critical thoughts of his lovely, innocent wife, that his eyes fill with tears, so that her soft, sleeping form blurs. He resolves to do right by her, to make a success of their farm. He will not let her down. He will not be defeated by a bit of weather and some bad luck.

Unsteadily, he leans forward, overcome with the need to kiss her. Not a passionate kiss driven by desire and lust, but a chaste act of deep affection; the sealing of a silent promise. He bends over her and lets his lips touch her forehead.

It is at this moment that Morgana wakes up, opening her eyes to find him looming above her.

Cai sees the terror in her eyes.

“Morgana!” he says, attempting to straighten up. But he is caught off balance and falls forward. Morgana wriggles beneath him, pushing at him, determined to throw him off.

“Be still!” he tells her. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Morgana, calm down…”

But she continues to writhe and strike at him. He grabs her wrists in an effort to quieten her, to explain, to reason with her, to reassure her that he was not attempting to force himself upon her. As soon as she feels his grip tighten on her she lunges upward and sinks her teeth into his hand.

“Argh!” Cai shouts, instinctively swiping her away. The back of his free hand connects with her face, sending her down onto the bed. Cai staggers backward. Morgana has bitten deep and drawn blood. He clutches at his wounded hand, shocked by what she has done and appalled at his own behavior. Never in his life before has he struck a woman. She leaps from the bed and stands, her back to the wall, fists clenched, defiant even now. The pain in his hand has a sobering effect on Cai, so that he becomes acutely aware of how badly he has behaved, and how much damage he may have done to his delicate relationship with Morgana. He wishes he could find words that would undo what has happened, but he can only mutter apologies as he hurries from the room.

Without moving from her place against the wall, Morgana slams the door behind him.

8.

A noise wakes me and I scramble from my bed. Has he returned? Has he come back to my bed to demand his rights as a husband? I thrash about, but I am alone. It is morning. The noise that woke me is being made downstairs—a terrible crashing and smashing. It seems to be coming from the parlor. Oh! The parlor!

I hurry from my room and reach the top of the stairs in time to see Cai pull open the door below and gasp as he stands on the threshold.

“
Duw,
what…?”

He dashes inside and I hear his cries and shouts.

“
Diawl, ydych chi!
Get out! Get out!”

From the kitchen Bracken sets up a barking and scrabbling, but the door is firmly shut.

I run down the broad stairs and into the parlor to witness a scene of mayhem. The owl, it seems, has regained its senses and, finding itself trapped in an unfamiliar place, set about seeking a way out. But I had not thought to leave a window open and the poor bird is swooping and screeching, hurling itself about the place, hitting the walls, reeling backward from the grandfather clock, trying to alight on the dresser shelves, its wings flapping frantically, sending Catrin’s beautiful china smashing to the ground. Cai runs back and fore, grabbing at the bird, which only increases its terror, causing further chaos, breaking more and more of the delicate plates and cups. First a serving dish, now a milk jug, next the lovely teapot and two saucers tumble to the floor, shattering on the unyielding flagstones.

I hasten forward, dodging the falling crockery, stepping this way and that to avoid Cai as he blunders about, snatching at the wretched bird. Can he really believe his actions are helping? Why would the owl listen to him as he charges and thunders like an ogre? It lands on the mantle and hesitates, searching for an escape. I dart past Cai, ducking beneath his outstretched arms, and lay my hands upon the trembling bird in the second before it can spring into the air again. As soon as it feels my touch it ceases to struggle, giving itself up almost gladly to my care. I hold it close to me, stroking its silken feathers, fearful that Cai will kill it in his rage.

He looks from the bird to me and back to the bird, taking in its altered demeanor. Now he spies the nest of hay in an old crate in the corner of the room. He narrows his eyes. He looks terrible. It is clear he has slept in his clothes. His hair is wild. His skin pale. The smell of stale wine is strong on his hot breath.

“You.” His voice is hoarse. “It was
you
brought that …
thing
in here. Don’t you know never to fetch a bird into a house? Don’t you know of the ill luck that will follow? Are you an idiot girl after all? Look!” He waves his arm, fist clenched at the end of it. “Look at the …
havoc
you have caused!”

He takes a step toward me and I move back until I am in the corner of the room. I am not afraid of his temper. I will not let him strike me a second time. But the owl is in such a nervous state I fear its galloping heart will give out if it is subjected to anything further. I can do nothing but stay where I am and control the fire that rises in my own belly. Cai looks at me with such desperation. When he speaks he is no longer shouting. His voice is low, almost a whisper, and his words are full of dismay.

“Calamity surrounds you,” says he. “Destruction is ever at your heels. What manner of wife are you? What manner of creature have I taken into my home?”

Abruptly the front door is pushed open and Mrs. Jones breezes in.

“Good morning
,
” she calls out. “And a beautiful morning it … Oh!
Duw,
Lord in heaven, what has happened here?” She stands at the entrance to the parlor, her hands flying to her face as she takes in the scene. Catrin’s precious china in pieces. Me crouched between dresser and hearth like a cornered rabbit. Cai leaning over me, his face displaying a dreadful combination of heartbreak and disgust.

He turns to her but says nothing, merely striding from the room, pushing past her, snatching up his hat from the hall table, and leaving through the front door. We watch him go, and as he draws level with the window he pauses, his attention taken by something new. I rise slowly from my hiding place, the bird still in my hands, and move closer to the window. A bewildered Mrs. Jones instinctively follows me. Now we see what Cai has seen. Meg’s grave. Only days ago we laid the little dog’s body beneath the dark soil, and to mark the spot I planted a glowing, yellow poppy. A
single
yellow poppy. Now, though not a week has passed since that sad afternoon, the mound shows not an inch of soil, but is covered in a mass of flowers, fourscore at the very least, their bright petals open to the morning sun, dew glistening on their leaves.

Cai stares at the impossibility in front of him, struggling to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Sensing he is being watched he swings round to find us both at the window. Beside me, Mrs. Jones stands openmouthed, shocked to silence. The owl swivels its soft head, its eyes closed against the sunshine. I stand straight, holding my feelings tight inside me lest they escape and cause further turmoil. Cai looks at me. Looks
into
me, I fancy. And in this moment I know that he sees me. Sees me in the way Mam used to see me. There can be no more hiding the truth. No ignoring the way things are. No more pretending I am not as I am. He holds my gaze for a long moment, his face, for once, unreadable. Without thinking about what I am doing, my action a reaction to the confusion in his expression, I step forward and raise a hand, letting my palm rest on the cool glass of the window between us. He hesitates, as if he might return to the house, but instead he turns away, heading off across the meadow. I watch the lonely figure that is my husband walk swiftly away from me, climbing the hill toward the freedom and sanctuary of the open mountain, and I wish, more than I have wished anything for a very long time, that I was walking with him.