CHAPTER FOURTEEN #6
Rhiannon moved back to the low cot and took Tudor’s cold hand in hers.
Her heart was breaking at the thought that she had already lost him.
The thought of never seeing him again, of never having him hold her again, was unbearable.
She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it tenderly.
‘Farewell for now, my love, but not forever,’ she whispered, letting one more tear fall onto his beloved face.
‘I will wait for you. I will find you, and we will be reunited.’ She let go his hand, laying it gently on his heart and then stood straight, taking a slow, steadying breath.
She looked directly at the old man then.
‘Hear me, my fellow witches, sisters, grand witches, elder witch. I, Rhiannon, pledge you my allegiance, my dagger hand, my magic, and my life. You have my oath.’
Beside her she heard Mamgi give a tiny sob. The voices raised into a crescendo until their words became song, and their song became bells, and the bells became the rain and the wind and the cracking of ice and the rumble of thunder and the cracking of lightening.
And then they were gone. And all was silent.
It took them two days to bury their dead.
The villagers were greatly shocked and saddened to lose so many of their loved ones.
The community had shrunk, and the surviving members would carry the scars of those losses with them always.
Tudor was the last to be buried. Rhiannon could not bring herself to part with his body, and sat in vigil beside him until the last possible moment.
During that time, she thought deeply about what her future might hold.
About what it was that had been asked of her.
She knew that her people needed her, and she was grateful to Mamgi for keeping everyone away while she spent those last hours with her lover’s body.
There would be time ahead to tend to them, for she knew they could no longer hide on the mountain.
All had changed. Her people needed to return to their homes, and it was up to her to see to it that they could.
When the moment could be put off no longer, Rufus and Owain and Ifan and Rhiannon herself became pallbearers, carrying Tudor on his litter to his resting place.
All the others who had been lost that day had been buried beneath the shade of a broad oak tree behind the barn.
Headstones would be made and crosses carved and inscribed for them over the coming weeks.
To everyone’s surprise, Rhiannon had chosen a place apart for Tudor.
Those who knew her well thought she might want him placed in the river glade, that soft, sheltered spot that she loved so well.
But this was not her decision. Instead, the funeral party walked away from the croft and the barn, further up the mountain, until they reached a broad stretch of open moorland.
Rhiannon picked up his wolfskin cape that covered him and draped it around her shoulders.
They took his shrouded body from the carrying litter and laid it on the wiry grass.
The whole village then set to work selecting stones.
One by one, rock by rock, they built a cairn over him, higher and higher, until there was a sturdy cairn to protect his remains and act as monument for their fallen friend.
All present stepped back and Mamgi uttered ancient prayers over the grave.
There was no music, no singing, only a respectful silence then, and the sad moaning of the wind, as if it too were grieving.
Little Bronwen came to stand close to Rhiannon and tugged at the wolf cape she now wore.
‘Why did you choose to put him here?’ she asked, the child bolder than her elders, voicing the question they were all curious to hear the answer to. ‘It is so wild and bleak and bare.’
Rhiannon crouched down to talk to the girl.
‘Up here he can see for fifty miles in any direction. Up here he can listen to the wind singing him to sleep. Up here he can be serenaded by skylarks and buzzards. Up here the sun can warm his soul.’ She stood up then, addressing Mamgi.
‘From up here, he can find his way back to me,’ she told her.
Next, she stepped over to the cairn and placed a hand on the cool stones.
Closing her eyes, she murmured words too quiet for anyone else to properly hear.
She breathed in a long, deep gulp of the sharp mountain air and then blew it gently out onto those stones, opening her eyes.
As she did so, a tiny plant appeared at the base of the cairn, bright and green and vigorous.
And then another and another, clambering and scrambling over the grave.
And as the plant grew so it blossomed, bursting into bright, golden flowers as the honeysuckle engulfed the cairn and the air was filled with its fragrance.
She stood back and smiled down at Bronwen.
‘Better?’ she asked.
The child nodded, smiling back.
Rhiannon tugged the lace from her hair and undid her braid, allowing her hair to flow free in the wind.
She slowly and carefully looked at all those present, taking time to look into the eyes of each and every one of them.
And then, just when they thought perhaps she might have something to say, she turned and strode off across the hilltop.
Mamgi called after her. ‘Cariad, where do you go?’
Without pausing she called back, ‘To see the king!’