The Swan Kingdom (2 page)

Mother, you see, had a different gift – a blessing from the Ancestors that allowed her to perform Great workings. The gift was one of healing, and it came from within her own body, not from the land. Mother could make people well whom any cunning woman would have given up for dead. When every poultice, potion and draught had failed, Lady Branwen could succeed. People came from all over the Kingdom and sometimes beyond, to seek her help; and she always gave it. She said that that was the price of the gift; that it must always be used. She also said that once there had been many women who had such power.

Now there was only her.

Mother never made me feel that I was a disappointment to her. In fact, sometimes I wondered if she was relieved that I had not inherited her gift. I knew such Great powers could be a burden, as well as a blessing. I had seen Mother grey and shaking with exhaustion after expending almost all her strength to save a life; and I had seen her weep bitterly when the gift was not enough to do so. Perhaps she was glad I had been spared such suffering. I could do small workings well enough; in some of them my skill even surpassed hers. With my knowledge of herbs and plants, of poultices and fomentations, I could offer comfort and the hope of recovery. But with that I had to be content. I had no Great gift.

My brothers thought my skills very useful. I could be asked to soothe a fractious horse, quickly warm a cold room in the Hall or hide the evidence of their picking fruit from Mother’s gardens without permission. But when Hugh asked me to summon a deer to be shot, I grew so upset that Robin and David made him promise never to speak of it again.

My father did not find the turn my lessons had taken nearly so agreeable. After having heard the thoughts and feelings of animals – for, make no mistake, they have thoughts and feelings just as we do – I could no longer bear to eat meat. My mother had never done so, but to have his own daughter rebel in such a way was a great annoyance to Father. He was used to his people greeting the return of the Hunt with joyful faces and much anticipatory licking of lips, not tearful reproaches at the sight of the poor deer or boar slung over the rump of the horse. The first evening that I pushed my meat-filled trencher away was the first time I saw him argue with my mother.

That night the atmosphere in the long room was heavy and oppressive, as if thunderclouds lurked under the rafters, waiting to burst. The household people, wary of my father’s mood, cleared away the remnants of the meal and hastily departed, and my brothers and I were dismissed from the room with a curt gesture from Father’s hand. But I did not go. Disobeying his orders yet again, I hid behind one of the tapestries, and from my hiding place watched their fight in a churning of guilt and terror.

“How will I find a husband for her if she refuses to welcome the hunt, Branwen? It will be hard enough, homely as she is; but if she is seen to be simple-minded as well, no one will ever want her.” He paced before the great stone mantel, his heavy boots thudding dully against the flagstones. “Is the satisfaction of defying me worth harming your own child? Because, make no mistake, you are harming her by insisting on this nonsense.”

My mother sat dangerously still in her chair, hands clenched into stubby freckled fists on the tabletop as she faced him; but her voice was calm when she spoke.

“What nonsense do you speak of, My Lord? The teachings of the Ancestors? My teachings? That nonsense has kept this land fertile and rich for centuries. It has saved your blighted crops, healed your ailing animals, calmed the floods and bade the sun to smile on you. Is that the
nonsense
you mean?”

His face reddened in sudden rage and he slammed a hand on the mantel, making the whole hearth shake. “
I
rule this land.
I
am its master. The Old Ways are dead. The Ancestors smile on me because of the strength of my sword arm, not because of spells chanted by a witch woman!”

I gasped silently in my hiding place. Mama flinched as though he had struck her and swiftly turned her face away; I saw Father blanch as he realized the effect of his words.

It was then that I crept from behind the tapestry and into the gardens. I climbed up onto one of the low branches of the giant oak and laid my face against its bark, letting the whispering of the leaves soothe away the echo of the angry words and lull me to sleep.

The next morning, my mother looked sad and tired. I did not tell her what I had heard.

From then on our lessons were no longer the open and joyful times they had been. I was not even allowed to tell my brothers of what I learned, and I knew this was to keep the truth from my father. In the years that followed, I heard my parents argue only a handful of times, but I was observant enough to understand that harsh words were often exchanged behind the heavy doors of their bedchamber.

Time passed and my learning advanced. Gradually, through my mother’s disparate lessons, I began to see a pattern in the world. The tides of enaid washed across the world, ever moving, unceasing and unsleeping. They bubbled up to allow growth and birth, and ebbed when there was death. And, gradually, I realized that there must be a source, a centre, the place where the enaid welled up into the land. My mother’s teachings were leading me closer and closer to the knowledge of what that centre was, closer to understanding the place from which all the tides of life flowed. But when I asked about it, she pretended not to hear, and continued to teach me carefully, methodically, of the currents and moods of the tides, allowing me only glimpses of that great power which lay beyond. I wondered if it might be something entirely beyond my comprehension, and that was why she kept it from me. The thought hurt. Still, I had my family and my home, and my daily lessons continued.

I had no idea of the darkness that was about to befall us.

The last normal day of my childhood was my fifteenth birthday. It was a day of great importance. Fifteen was when girls in the Kingdom were considered of an age to marry, and consequently a day for celebration in most girls’ lives.

It was not quite the same for me. My father had no hope of marrying me off to advantage, for I was still lanky and plain, with a figure like a runner bean; and what was more, I was still wild and unheeding, still listened to my mother’s words and ignored my father’s, and talked to animals instead of eating them. I also had such a wealth of wisdom by that time that many a lord would have married me anyway, putting up with my homely face for the sake of my skills. But Father’s indictment of my mother’s lessons meant he had only the vaguest idea of my knowledge, and because he never troubled himself with what he called “women’s gossip” he didn’t know my name was held in high regard as a cunning woman. He had given up hope that I would ever bloom into a daughter he could be proud of.

Regardless of that, there was to be a banquet in my honour. It was tradition, after all; and my father was not, in general, a cruel man. So the evening of my fifteenth birthday a great fire was lit outside the Hall, fuelled with offerings of scented wood that would burn all night in thanks to the Ancestors. Lords and ladies from all the surrounding areas gathered in the long room to stuff themselves in my name. Because it was my feast, I was allowed to request all my favourite songs of the harpist and singer come to entertain us that night. I was even asked to dance a few times, by my brothers, of course, but also by some of the shy boys spurned by prettier girls.

When midnight came, I asked for one last song – my favourite. It was an ancient ballad called “The Tears of Mairid Westfield”, which told the story of the doomed love of a peasant healer and a king. The king’s jealous brother cast a spell over the healer and turned her into a grey fox, and the king, not knowing who the creature was when he found it in his rooms, drove his love away into the forest. The chorus had a haunting melody, and everyone always sang along with it:

As I looked up from singing the last chorus, I realised that Father had gone. His chair at the head of our table was empty. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him in the long room. My gaze turned to my mother, who tilted her head and gave me an apologetic look. I sighed.

I woke early the next morning and lay in my sunken bed, the carved wooden pillars rising above me. I stared, in that fixed, almost-awake way, at the intricate braiding of the thatched roof above me as I slowly became aware of the ache in my lower abdomen. I shifted uncomfortably, then frowned and lifted the quilted cover to stare down at the sticky brown stain on the inside of my thighs. With an odd mixture of apprehension and excitement I realized that I really was a woman now. My bleeding had begun.

I used the soft cloths my mother had given me the year before to bind myself, and then reached down into the earth, feeling for the ripples of enaid that told me where I would find her. I followed the movement of the tide, unsurprised to locate her in the gardens.

She was sitting on the grass, as she often did, in the shade of the dog rose that rambled over the southern wall of the Hall. Climbing plants were deadly to wood-frame buildings like the Hall – its wattle and daub walls and thatching could be pulled down by nothing more than ivy, if left unchecked. Mother was vigilant in making sure that no parasitic plants attached themselves to the building, but roses were her favourite and so she allowed this one limited freedom.

As soon as I saw her face, I knew there was no need to speak; she must have felt the resonance of my tangled emotions before I even stepped into the gardens. She patted the ground beside her, inviting me to sit.

“So, my darling,” she said, her smile excited and girlish as she reached out to embrace me, “now you really are a woman. This is an important day for you. For us all.”

She released me and absently began to prune the roses, and as she turned I thought I saw a different emotion flicker across her face. It might have been sadness; it might have been fear. I tried to understand the expression, but it was gone almost before I had seen it, and then I wondered if I had seen anything at all.

Her hardened fingers pinched the whippy stems deftly and the fibrous plant parted under her touch as easily as if she had applied shears. It was one of the first skills she had taught me, and since by now the gardens wore as almost as much mine as hers, I joined her. Our hands, working side by side, looked identical.

“In my great-grandmother’s day, we would have had a celebration. A real celebration, nothing like that …
civilized
thing last night. All the women of child-bearing age would have danced and sung to wild music in the Circle of Ancestors.” She sighed and turned to me, a blowsy rose drooping in one hand. She swiftly stripped off the thorns, then leaned forward and tucked it carefully behind my ear in the thick mass of dark red hair.

“Circle of Ancestors?” I asked. I’d never heard her mention the name before.

“Ah. Never mind. In any case, I’m afraid we cannot do that today. Can you imagine the look on your father’s face? But you and I must still mark the change in your life, Alexandra.”

“How? What will we do?” I asked curiously.

“That’s a surprise. I will come for you tonight, after everyone else has gone to bed, and then you will see.”

She smiled mischievously, but I still thought she looked a little sad, so I nodded and did not press her. She reached out to touch my cheek with one rough finger as the smile died from her face. “You’re strong,” she whispered, more to herself than me. “Stronger than I am. You’ll be all right.”

The stillness of the moment was shattered by a harsh croak from above us. We both jumped and looked up to see a hooded crow peering at us from the thatching. It croaked again, rather smugly, I thought, and then took flight, casting a shadow over us as it went. It landed on the highest branch of the old oak and settled to watch us once more.

I pressed my hand against my thudding heart, feeling ridiculous for having jolted like a frightened rabbit. “Stupid creature,” I muttered.

Mother laughed at my aggrieved tone, throwing back her head so that the sun seemed to spill through her hair like molten copper. “Perhaps he’s a clever bird, and bored of our conversation,” she said. “Let’s give him something more exciting to watch. Dance, Alexandra!”

She jumped up, pulling me to my feet, and swirled me around as she had when I was a baby, her slender arms easily lifting me off the ground, though I was taller than she. Then she tripped over a spade, almost sending us both sprawling, and started laughing again at her own clumsiness. No one could listen to my mother laugh without joining in, so I laughed too, and the pair of us danced around the gardens, giggling madly for no reason, until we finally collapsed on the springy flock moss, gasping for breath.

The sun was only an hour set when I lay down among the knitted blankets and furs of my bed, stiff with nervous excitement. Outside, I could hear the gardens settling. An owl – Tawny by the sound of it – hooted gently from the tree by my window. The pinkish light faded with excruciating slowness, but there was no danger I might fall asleep. I was too excited, too apprehensive.

I felt the subdued echo of Mama’s presence moments before she leaned through my open window, a finger at her lips. I got up, pulled on a fresh gown and went to her.

“Put this on,” she whispered, passing me a bundle of fabric. I unfolded it to reveal a long cloak with a deep hood. It was a dull dark green colour, but the soft lining was holly-berry red. I clasped it at my throat, and then clambered over the sill to stand beside her in the darkness under the thatching, crushing the fragrant lavender under my feet. I accepted a small pack from her and slung it over my shoulder, then followed her out of the gardens and into the waving grasses of the meadow beyond.