Authors: Paula Brackston
Dai settles himself against a low wall with a sigh and takes out his clay pipe.
“Well then, Mrs. Ffynnon Las,” says he, “those ponies of yours are looking fit as fleas. Mr. Ffynnon Las will be pleased with your work.” He laughs, a gulping guffaw of mirth. “You might find an extra shilling or two in your pay, see?”
Meredith swigs off his ale and gives a pointed belch. “Days were you wouldn’t see a woman on a drove,” says he.
Dai waves his pipe at his own wife and Spitting Sara. “Aye? And what are these, then, Meredith, m’n? Fairies, is it?”
The fairies laugh at this, particularly Sara, who finds it so amusing she spits out her well-worn lump of tobacco and celebrates the moment with a fresh piece. Edwyn grimaces and then smiles at me.
“You know what I mean,” says Meredith. “Some used to think it bad luck to let a woman work the herd.” He pauses to tip more ale in his jug. “Some still do.”
“You tell me who the man is as could do a better job of keeping those ponies in hand than the lovely Mrs. Jenkins here,” Dai challenges him. Getting no reply he gives a hearty grunt. “There you are, see?”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” puts in Spitting Sara, which leaves everyone a little puzzled. Cai, who has been talking to the owner of the farm, reappears. He comes to sit beside me. Meredith mutters into his ale. Edwyn sighs and looks away from me now.
“Let’s have a song!” says Dai. “Come on, Watson, start us off.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” Watson puts on a poor show of reluctance before being persuaded by everybody to sing. He stands up and clears his throat dramatically. There are a few seconds of silence and then he begins in a clear, graceful tenor to give a subtle rendition of
Calon Lan
! The words work their spell, causing all to fall quiet, lulled by the music, carried away by the sentiment.
Nid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus
Aur y byd na’i berlau mân
Gofyn rwyf am calon hapus
Calon onest, calon lân
I ask not for ease and riches
Nor earth’s jewels for my part
But I have the best of wishes
For a pure and honest heart.
At last the other men cannot hold back. Edwyn joins in, providing a passable second tenor, while Dai and Meredith reveal themselves to be fine baritone and bass, respectively. They sing together in close harmony, finding their notes as if they were born to such sweet music, which of course they were.
Cai gives me a small smile and moves close to my ear to tell me quietly, “’Tis the
hiraeth,
Morgana. The yearning for home every Welshman feels when he is away from it. They cannot help themselves.” Indeed, only a few seconds later he gives in to this longing himself and joins the song, adding a gentle baritone of his own, the notes pitch perfect and melodic.
When they have come to the end there is a silence filled with thoughts of home. Sara, unable to stand the sight of such melancholy descending on the evening, claps her hands together abruptly and begins a bawdy song of her own that soon has me blushing and everyone else yelping with laughter. Even Bracken joins in with a discordant howling. I only wish I had the heart left to feel such joy.
After supper Cai leaves us to check on the cattle, taking the tired corgi with him. I myself slip away, following the flow of water downstream until I find a private spot. The riverbank is grassy and slopes gently into a bend in the stream which provides a natural bathing pool. The thought of washing away the grime of the journey is a soothing one. The pastures here are small and gently sloping, with many small copses, so that there are no vistas, but instead pockets of tranquil grazing. The place of my choosing is wonderfully secluded, with hazel trees and willows lending shade and screening short stretches of the water from view completely. I find a broad, flat rock at the water’s edge and quickly undress. My blouse, being one of a pair, is still in reasonable condition, and my slip is tolerably clean as I have been able to rinse it on occasion. My heavy divided skirt, however, has fared less well. It reeks with the smell of horse sweat and the dung of the various livestock kicked up as the cavalcade advances, is stained with muddy rainwater, and is altogether coated in filth. Nonetheless, it is serving its purpose well, and I am glad of it. I stand naked, hesitating for only a second before stepping off the rock into the deepest part of the pool. The coldness of the water is shocking but wonderful. On tiptoe I am just able to keep my head above the surface, so that I have only to bob down to completely submerge myself. I take a breath and disappear into the glorious peacefulness of the underwater realm, reveling in the sensation of the current tugging through my hair, caressing my skin, washing away the toil and effort of the preceding weeks. If only the ache in my heart were so simply eased.
I break the surface, my eyes closed, water coursing down my face. Even sightless, however, I am instantly aware of another’s presence. My eyes spring open, and I shake droplets from my face, squinting into the trees and bushes on the riverbank. I can make out a figure. A man. At first I think it is Cai, and am not alarmed. The deep water is maintaining my modesty, at least, and, I am surprised to realize, I do not feel resistance at the thought of being naked with him. In fact, quite the contrary. It comes as a shock, then, to see that it is not my husband who stands watching me. It is Edwyn Nails.
Instinctively I cross my arms over my chest. I cannot reach my clothes without getting out of the water. I cannot leave without fetching my clothes. I am trapped. I think at first he must have stumbled upon me by chance; been following the river perhaps in search of a place to bathe and heard sounds of splashing. As I watch him, though, as I study the wideness of his eyes, and the tension in his body, I see this is not the case. He has come looking for me, and he has found me. Here. Unclothed and alone. My anxiety increases as he steps onto the rock where my clothes lie. He stoops and picks up my thin cotton slip, holding it against his cheek, smiling. The love spoon whistle falls from its folds, landing on the stones hopelessly out of my reach. I feel panic rising within me.
A memory, sharp and painful, comes unbidden into my head. A memory of another young man, some years ago. A memory of another lonely place. Another instance of my being trapped. That time I had been only thirteen, a girl on the cusp of womanhood. I had been out walking, roaming the hillside behind my home as I was wont to do. Tired from the heat I had rested in the corner of a ripening hay meadow. The field was full of grasses tall and soft, and bespeckled with cornflowers, poppies, and buttercups. Lying among their cool stems I had near drifted off to sleep when a shadow fell across me. The sun behind the figure who towered over me made it difficult to be certain of the identity of my attacker. Before I had the chance to as much as get to my feet I felt the weight of the young man on top of me. He was so lumpen, so hefty, that he winded me as he pinned me to the ground. The sun illuminated his hair in a copper red halo, so that I knew him then. For there was only one lad in the village with hair that color. One who had been a brute as a small boy, and had grown to be a brute as an adult. Did his assault on me stem from resentment for what I had done to him in the schoolroom all those years before? Or was he merely driven by the animal inside him, wanting what he would not be given, so taking it instead? I will never know.
Nor did anyone else ever have the opportunity to ask him.
Edwyn takes his shirt off over his head. I cast about for a way out, but still cannot overcome my reluctance to emerge naked from the river. He hops around pulling at his boots and then sits down to remove his breeches. He barely takes his eyes off me to do so. I shake my head firmly, holding up my hand in a gesture that can only mean
No!
He pays no heed. In seconds he is standing on the rock naked. I look away, turning to wade out toward the opposite riverbank. I hear him splash into the water behind me. I move as quickly as I can but cannot outpace his long limbs, even through the stream and over the uneven rocks. He grabs me around my waist, pulling me back against him.
“Cai calls you his wild one, I’ve heard him.” His voice is harsh, his words urgent. “Seems to me you need a good man to tame you,” says he, doing his best to spin me round to face him, despite my furious struggles. “I know you like me,” he goes on. “I’ve seen you looking at me, Morgana. We are alike, you and I.” He is panting now, with the effort of restraining me and with his mounting desire. I feel pressure building inside my head. I will not let him violate me. I do not believe I have encouraged him to think that this could possibly be what I want. Indeed his behavior at this moment is so at odds with the character he has shown to this point I barely recognize him as the same man. The man trusted by Cai. The man known locally as honest and hardworking, recommended by Dai the Forge, recognized by all as someone likable and fair. How can it be he is so changed? So altered, that he would try to force himself upon me?
In my desperate attempts to wriggle free of him I lose my footing and unbalance us both. We topple as one, the silky water closing over our heads. In the unearthly muffled depths he continues to pull at me. I kick him away and break the surface, gasping. But I am not free of him yet. His rough hand seizes my wrist. He stands before me again, grinning.
“A fine game, Morgana. If it makes you feel better to pretend you don’t want me, I don’t mind.” He tightens his grip on my arm and pulls me toward him. I shake my head again as plainly as is possible. Now his other hand finds my left breast.
This will not do. Really, it will not.
I fix him with my gaze. He continues to grin. He is still grinning when the water about him starts to swirl. It takes a moment for him to become aware of something curious occurring. Only when he finds himself at the center of a whirlpool does his expression change. He starts to lose his balance; to be sucked down by the unnatural force of the maelstrom. He shouts out in fear. Now he lets go of my wrist. Or rather, he tries to let go of my wrist, but he finds he cannot. His face becomes colored by panic. Frantically he tries to unfurl his fingers, to draw away from me. He looks at me in utter bewilderment. When he sees how calm I am, when he sees that the water around me remains undisturbed, when he sees that the level of the whirlpool is ever rising about him, he gives way to terror and starts to scream. It is a terrible sound. The sound a snared animal might make, perhaps. Or an unwilling girl brutally used to satisfy a man’s lust.
“Morgana!” he shouts as the water reaches his chin. “Morgana, help me! Please! I’m sorry … please!”
I do not enjoy seeing him suffer so. I do not wish to torment him. I want only to repel his advances. Will he try to impose his desire on me again, I wonder. I think not.
I release my invisible hold on his hand and he disappears beneath the water. Swiftly, I leave the pool and snatch up my clothes. Behind me the whirlpool is subsiding. As I step into my garments I see Edwyn clambering from the river, dragging himself gasping and spluttering onto the far bank where he lies, stunned and wheezing, coughing up water. I admit there is satisfaction in seeing how my actions have tamed him. Humiliated him. Given him pause for thought. And there is something else—I am aware of the subtlety of my power on this occasion. Yes, my response was born of fear and of anger, but it felt somehow different this time. As if I were more in control. As if my will could be more focused, and my magic more carefully directed. The knowledge that my abilities are ever increasing gives me some strength, some comfort.
Something catches my eye and I turn quickly to see a figure standing, silhouetted against the sun. I narrow my eyes to see more clearly, but already I know who it is. Isolda. Now the alteration in Edwyn’s character is explained. Is there no one she will not use, will not bend to her will?
My hair still dripping, my clothes sticking to my wet body, I pick up my boots and run barefoot back to the barn.
* * *
Content that the stock are settled for the night, Cai makes his way back to the camp. There is a certain nervousness within him, one that he chides himself for. He knows its cause. He has not secured a room for Morgana, so she will spend the night with the rest of them in the barn. The thought that she might lay beside him through the soft hours of darkness is thrilling. Stupidly so, he tells himself, for with so many people sharing the space it is hardly a night for privacy or intimacy. Even so, the idea of having her close, of watching her sleep, perhaps, moves him. He busies himself clearing a space in a corner of the barn, making sure there is sufficient room for two, so that she might naturally take her place next to him.
It is as he is arranging the saddles for pillows that she returns. It is obvious she has been bathing, for her wet hair hangs heavily down her back and her feet are bare. She sees him and he smiles at her. She looks wonderfully fresh and young. But she does not return his smile. Indeed, she seems agitated, irritated almost, by the sight of him. She looks at the cozy bed he is constructing and, instead of falling happily into it, snatches up a blanket and disappears to the other side of the barn to be with the women. Cai does his best not to let his disappointment show on his face. He must not read anything into her actions. After all, Cerys has also chosen to stay with the women rather than join Dai in the wagon. Perhaps Morgana considers it would not be proper for her to lie with him. He must be patient. He is resigning himself to another restless night when he spies Edwyn returning from the same river path from which Morgana emerged. He, too, is wet, his hair slick against his head, his shirt clinging to his damp body. He, too, has been bathing.
Bathing with Morgana?
The question reverberates around Cai’s mind. Could it be true? Would she do such a thing? Spurn him, in favor of a young lad she barely knows? Make a fool of him here, now, on the drove, of all places? He cannot believe it. He will not believe it. Not of her. Surely she is not capable of such betrayal? And yet, she is several years younger than him. And she has not shown any inclination to take to his bed. Has not shown affection. Does she find him so unlovable? Has her head been turned by a youth, by a boy who has nothing, is nobody? Has all his care and patience been for nothing, just to be made a fool of? Anger chokes him. Anger, hurt, and confusion. He contemplates a flagon of ale Meredith has missed. But no, if he has been found wanting as a husband he will not fall short of what is required of a
porthmon.
Without a backward glance he strides from the camp across the meadow, not caring where his route takes him, knowing only that he must put distance between himself and Edwyn. Between himself and Morgana. Enough distance, enough walking, enough time, for his temper to cool and reason to return.