The Witch
Descending towards the beach, Ylva heard the lyrical ring of a bell chiming within the hollow crash of waves. One of the lookouts on the island must have spotted her approach and sounded the alarm. There was now a flurry of activity among the buildings, people running to gather children and keep out of sight, others taking up arms and making for the walls.
Ylva braced herself for attack as she crossed the sand and urged the horse on to the slippery causeway. The sea smashed the rocks either side of her, spraying her with icy water, engulfing the path before drawing away and leaving seaweed strewn in its wake.
She kept her eyes on the figures standing on the wall nearest the gate and held out her arms to show she meant no harm. Halfway across the causeway, she realized the sea was now swirling around the horse’s hooves and not receding. If anything it was becoming deeper, and to those watching from the wall it might have seemed as if she were riding across the surface of the water.
Shocked, Ylva grabbed the reins and nudged the horse to move faster. At this rate, the ground would be gone in just a few minutes.
As she reached the front gate, Ylva brought the horse to a halt and looked up at the warriors on the wall. She expected them to be men but was surprised to see four women, dressed in leather and mail, each of them aiming a bow at her.
‘Stop there! Who are you?’ one of them shouted down to her.
‘I need help,’ Ylva shouted back. ‘Cathryn sent me.’
‘You’re a Dane.’ The women exchanged glances, before the one who had spoken to her called down again. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
More women came to join them, looking out towards the beach, scanning the shore.
‘Are you alone?’ they asked.
‘Cathryn sent me,’ Ylva yelled over the crashing of waves. ‘I have Bron. Please.’ The water was around the horse’s fetlocks now, approaching his knees. Before long it would be touching his belly. ‘Let us in.’
‘Where’s Cathryn?’
‘Gone,’ Ylva said. ‘Please! Let us in.’ She grabbed the back of Bron’s tunic and pulled him up so his head lolled back and his face was towards the sky. ‘He needs help!’ Ylva frantically looked around at the deepening water. ‘Please!’
The women spoke among themselves, words that were lost in the roar of breakers smashing against the island, then one of them leant to the side and shouted down. ‘Let them in!’
A moment later, the gate drew back and Ylva’s horse surged forward without encouragement. It waded across the end of the causeway and stepped up on to the island.
As soon as Ylva was on dry land, two women pushed the gate closed. Beyond it, the causeway was now completely submerged.
‘Good thing you came across when you did, child.’ One of the gatekeepers came to take the reins of Ylva’s horse and steady it. She wore a mail vest and carried a spear in her left hand. ‘If you’d tried it a few moments later, the sea would’ve had you.’ Her long hair blew in the wind. ‘What happened to Bron?’
‘He’s hurt,’ Ylva said. ‘I need the Witch. Where is she?’
‘She’s up at the abbey.’ The woman pointed to the large, grey stone building in the centre of the island. ‘I’ll take—’
Ylva dug her heels into the horse’s flanks and the reins tore out of the woman’s hands.
‘Hey!’
Ylva ignored the shouts and galloped towards the centre of the island. When she came closer to the abbey, the front door opened, and an old woman stepped out. She wore a plain linen dress with a woollen cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Long grey hair was pulled up to the top of her head and tied in an untidy twist. She rested one hand on her hip as she watched Ylva approach. A mangy grey dog slipped out behind her and started barking, but the old woman ignored it.
Ylva jumped down from the horse and reached up for Bron. ‘Help him,’ she said to the old woman.
The boy had no strength at all. He slipped sideways, and Ylva took as much of his weight as she could to soften his fall into the snow. ‘Help him!’ Ylva turned and shouted at the old woman. ‘Please.’
Every inch of the old woman’s skin was wrinkled like a dried riverbed, and her brown, watery eyes were set deep. Her lips were so thin they were hardly even there.
There was a flurry of movement as warriors formed a semicircle behind Ylva, brandishing swords and spears. ‘Stop there! Stay where you are!’
But Ylva didn’t even look back to acknowledge them. ‘He’s hurt.’ She took Bron under the shoulders and dragged him towards the old stone abbey. ‘Please. Why won’t you help me?’
‘Bron!’ A younger woman hurried out from the hall and came straight to help Ylva. ‘What happened to him?’ She took hold of Bron’s feet. ‘Mother, get out of the way. And one of you come and help me.’
The old woman stepped aside, and one of the warriors came forward, but Ylva refused to let them help as she and the young woman carried Bron into the warmth of the abbey.
‘It’s bad,’ Ylva said as they took him to a room at the back and put him on a straw-covered bed. The dog followed, sniffing at the wounded boy, so the woman shooed it back out into the main room. It went to the fire and collapsed in a curled heap.
‘What happened to him?’ The woman ran her fingers along Bron’s cheek.
‘Stabbed,’ Ylva said. ‘Right here.’ She opened his cloak to show her.
The woman immediately removed the scarf Ylva had used to cover the injury. She gently touched the skin close to the wound then looked up at Ylva. ‘You’re a Dane – did you do this? Did you hurt him?’
‘No.’
‘What about Cathryn?’
‘She died.’
‘Leave us.’ The woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath to compose herself.
‘You have to help him. Please, he—’
‘Leave us.’
So Ylva left her with Bron, and returned to the main hall.
The building was bigger and stronger than anything Ylva had seen before. Its ceiling was so high she had to put her head back to see the cracked and faded paintings that covered it. The grey stone floor was strewn with skins and furs to make it warmer and more homely, and the walls were decorated with a collection of tapestries. Arranged around a central firepit, there were five long tables with benches either side that would each seat as many as eight people.
‘Come here.’ The old woman was taking a steaming pot from the fire. ‘Come.’
‘Are you the Witch?’ Ylva asked. ‘You need to help Bron.’
‘Such a strong girl.’ The old woman held the pot in one wrinkled hand and reached out for Ylva with the other. Her nails were thick and hard. Her knuckles were swollen and gnarled.
When Ylva recoiled, the old woman waggled her fingers, making it clear she wanted Ylva to take her hand.
‘No.’ Ylva stepped back.
The old woman thrust her hand closer, so Ylva put her own behind her back and shook her head. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Ylva asked. ‘Why don’t you get in there and—’
The old woman put down the pot and grabbed Ylva’s wrist to pull her hand from behind her back. ‘You’re strong,’ she said. ‘You’ve come far. But you’re not as alone as you think.’
Ylva snatched her hand away and glared at the woman. ‘You’re the Witch,’ she said. ‘You need to help Bron.’
‘Do I look like a witch?’
‘Yes.’
The old woman chuckled. It was a rattling, guttural sound that turned into a cough. ‘Well, child, looks can be deceiving. Things aren’t always as you think. My daughter Mildred is the one you need. Cathryn always called her younger sister “the Witch”.’
‘Her sister? She’s Cathryn’s sister?’
‘Yes. And she will do everything she can to help Bron, I promise you that.’ The old woman put a cloth into Ylva’s hand and pointed at the pot. ‘Take that to her; she’ll need your help.’
Ylva took the pot of boiling water into the room at the back. Mildred hardly spoke, other than to tell Ylva what to do, and as they worked to save Bron’s life, Ylva watched her, thinking that she didn’t look like a witch at all. And there was hardly any resemblance to her sister, Cathryn, except in her eyes.
At last, Mildred wrapped Bron’s wound with a cloth bandage and stepped away from the bed.
‘Will he live?’ Ylva asked.
‘We’ve done everything we can,’ Mildred said. ‘The only thing left is to wait and to pray.’ She motioned to a stool. ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me who you are?’
So Ylva sat down and told her everything.