The Silver Witch by Paula Brackston Page A

the narrow gap of bare skin my tunic reveals at my throat. His touch is warm. ‘You are like … no other,’ he says. ‘You are moonlight made flesh.’
    I raise my face and force myself to look into his eyes. And he to look into mine. He does not flinch, only returns my stare with such intensity I fear for an instant that my own resolve might weaken. That I will let down my guard and reveal the depth of my own feverish wishes. But I must not. Still I do not trust myself to speak, for a woman’s heart can be a faithless mistress of her mind, and her tongue is more than able to betray them both!
    The prince, too, stands silent for a moment, but then words come tumbling from his hungry mouth. ‘Do you not know that my mind is filled with you? When men speak to me I do not hear their voices, but yours . I see not their faces, but your own . In sleep there is no escape, for you haunt my dreams. And what dreams they are! You and I … alone…’
    â€˜My Lord, you must not say these things.’
    â€˜I must speak what is in my heart, else it will burst!’
    â€˜You are a prince and should have command of your heart at least.’
    â€˜I have not! It is in your thrall. You have bewitched me.’
    â€˜I would not misuse my gifts so!’
    â€˜And yet it is the truth. Whether you bring it about with purpose or not. I am a man sick with passion…’
    â€˜You are not a man!’ I insist. ‘You are protector of your people. Ruler of this land. Husband to your wife.’
    â€˜Yes, I am all these, and yet I am good for none of them if my soul is in torment.’
    â€˜Do not speak to me of souls. Your pain lies a little farther south of your heart, I believe.’
    â€˜Does mocking me serve you well, Seren?’
    â€˜I seek only to remind you of what is true. You are my prince,’ I repeat, though now I cannot meet his gaze. ‘I am your shaman, your prophet, your witch. Our destinies are linked in these ways alone. I will be your guide, your most faithful ally, but I can never share your home. Nor your bed.’ I push at his arm, making to stride past him, but in a swift movement he traps me against the tree, his body pressed against mine, his breath hot upon my cheek as he whispers urgently.
    â€˜Then I will meet you in the wildness of the woods, or on the soothing shores of the sacred lake, or under the gentle cloak of darkness. Wherever, whenever you will it, just so long as you do not turn from me again!’
    He notices me tilt my head and I know that he, too, has heard the galloping horse that approaches. His own steed pauses in its grazing and whinnies to its stable mate. Prince Brynach wrenches himself from me, cursing as the sturdy figure of his faithful captain, Hywel Gruffydd, rides into view. I stand straight, resisting the impulse to scurry away through the trees, willing my heart to return to a more stable rhythm.
    â€˜My Prince!’ Hywel calls out as his wide-rumped mount slows to a jarring trot. ‘I was not aware you wished to ride out. Forgive me for not being at your service,’ he pants.
    â€˜No matter, Hywel,’ the prince replies with a practiced casualness that belies the turmoil I know him to be suppressing. ‘I had a wish to take in some of this rare sunshine. My route crossed that of our Seer.’ He gestures toward me and his captain nods curtly, grunting a greeting that might have earned him a cuff around the ear had we been in more formal circumstances.
    â€˜I bid you both good day,’ I say, and, without allowing either the time to respond, I march past the prince’s patient horse and walk as quickly as I can away from that scene of such tightly bottled tempers as might cause the lake itself to seethe. It takes me all my wits not to run. Back to my home. Back to my seclusion. Back to the place I belong. Alone.

 
    6
    TILDA
    Tilda lies awake in her bed, listening to the moaning of