Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  But God didn’t listen. For a week we stayed there, eating scraps of barley, which was all that was left of our stores, and berries that we gathered from the woods, and every day Myfanwy grew worse, till her voice was so faint I could hardly hear her words. There were Saxons just across the valley, in Dolbadarn Castle, and twice Dafydd’s two boys, who kept watch, saw some coming towards the wood so I had to get poor Myfanwy onto her feet and we hobbled into the trees to hide. Though we needn’t have troubled as they didn’t find our hut either time. Early one morning I heard hooves then footsteps and I thought, they have us now, but no, it was Dafydd returned with his followers or what remained of them, as I only counted seven. Even Dafydd had finally lost his smile now. He’d raised his standard, he told us, but instead of finding a great Cymry army rallying to his side, he found betrayal. Someone told the Saxons he was there and they were soon swarming up Cadair Idris just as they had Snowdon.

  ‘What’s your counsel, Iorwerth?’ he asked me that same morning after he returned, watching at me with those anxious eyes. And what did you tell him, Iorwerth? you’ll ask. Ride into the straits and drown yourself? Swallow a bowl of deadly nightshade. Hurl yourself from a high cliff. That’s all you deserve for bringing ruin on your country. But you’ll know by now, I’ve never been skilled at telling people truths they’d rather not hear. So, instead of poking at his misery I tried to cheer him up, telling him, ‘If we can hide out for long enough here then, who knows, perhaps they’ll give up and leave us be?’ Then I sat quiet and listened as he told me, for the hundredth time, how he’d had no chance but to make all the witless, ruinous choices that he had. ‘There was nothing else I could do,’ he said, looking to be sure I agreed. ‘They’d insulted my honour, you see.’ Then he smiled at me like I was his last friend in all Christendom. Which I probably was. ‘You’re the only one who understands, Iorwerth.’

  That same afternoon I went to Myfanwy and whispered into her ear and she looked at me with her feverish eyes. ‘You must,’ she murmured. ‘Just do it, I beg you.’ And now finally God gave me his help. Dafydd and his followers had found some mead at Bere Castle that they’d brought back with them and that evening they opened up the bottles. Being famished as they were, their words soon grew slurred and when the last drop was gone they fell fast asleep, including even the one who was supposed to be outside on guard. I had no trouble slipping away without being noticed.

  It was a clear night, the moon was almost full and I reached Dolbadarn Castle easily enough. Five calls it took before a Saxon answered from the battlements. Having been marching back and forth through the wet and cold for weeks they were more than happy to agree the little I asked. They followed me back to the shepherd’s hut, laughing and cursing themselves for not having thought to search that part of the wood. Then, just as I’d wanted, they let me creep back inside. The only eyes that saw me lie down were Myfanwy’s, and even through her fever I saw her relief that I was back. I gave her a nod to say it was done. I couldn’t sleep but lay there, praying again and again, please God, I beg you, spare us.

  And this time God listened. At first light I heard the door creak open. I took Myfanwy and our boy and huddled us tight against the wall, staring at the timbers before me, and trying to think of nothing, nothing at all except, isn’t that a strange little scratch in the wood that’s shaped almost like a dog. And there’s another that looks like a willow. I listened as, quietly as they could, they came in, their boots scraping over the floorboards. One of Dafydd’s followers heard them and he let out a shout, Lady Elizabeth shrieked, so did some of the children and then the hut was filled with cries and clanging steel. It was all over in a moment. When I finally looked back from the wall, three of Dafydd’s followers lay still on the ground and he was leaning against the doorway, his eyes closed, no sword in his hand and a gash to his arm. All I could think was, we’re all safe. Myfanwy and me and our little boy, we’re all safe. We were the only ones that the Saxons let go, but even then Dafydd didn’t guess. The Saxons trussed him up like a pig for market and threw him over the back of a horse and as they were about to set off he jerked his head up to give me a last look, calling out to me, ‘Goodbye, Iorwerth. Goodbye, my dear, good friend.’

  So I got everything I’d wanted. Once Myfanwy had some food in her belly she soon grew well and within a month she’d given birth to our daughter, both of them as healthy as could be. How lucky you were, Iorwerth, you’ll be saying to yourselves. You saved yourself and your family, which was all you cared about. Which was true enough, and for a time I was filled of joy. There’s no keeping secrets in Gwynedd, and once the Saxons had told their tales every man and dog knew what I’d done, and I got some sour looks and sharp words. It would have been far worse, no doubting, if Dafydd had been more liked. D’you know I didn’t even much care, not at first.

  No, my enemy was time. Each month seemed to bring something new. First there was Dafydd’s trial by King Edward and his parliament in Shrewsbury. The only blessing was that I didn’t have to go myself and see Dafydd’s accusing stares. Nor did I have to see what was done to him. For treason he was dragged by a horse through the town. For murder he was taken up alive, if barely, and hanged by the neck. For having started his war in Holy Week his bowels were torn from him and burned. And for plotting to murder King Edward, which even Dafydd had never thought of doing, he was cut into quarters that were ridden to each corner of England. As for his head, that went to London, where it was put on a pole above the Tower, beside his brother Llewelyn’s. His children were spared but only just. His young sons were locked up in Bristol Castle to rot and his daughters, along with Llewelyn’s little girl, were sent to nunneries, to make quite sure the royal house of Gwynedd died forever.

  Then time brought me Reginald de Grey, Dafydd’s goader who’d begun this whole ruin. King Edward gave him Dyffryn Clwyd, one of Dafydd’s two cantreds, which de Grey ruled with the same greedy, provoking haughtiness that he’d shown as justiciar of Chester. He offered me work, not as a scribe of course, as that kind of office went only to Saxons now, but as a translator, and, as this wasn’t a time when a man could pass by the chance of earning some bread, I said yes. So my little family moved to Ruthin Castle, where I kept quiet and bore de Grey’s baiting sneers about Dafydd and Llewelyn, and I stayed silent when he joked about my poor, grieving countrymen, and laughed at how low and barbarous they were. Mostly I worked for his bailiffs, translating the words of those few farmers who’d managed to keep hold of their lands, instead of seeing them snatched away and given to Saxons. I’d listen as, looking at me with scared, rabbit eyes, they slipped in murmurs meant only for my ears. ‘They’ve already had everything we have.’ Or, ‘We’ve nothing stored. We almost starved this spring.’ I did what I could to help them, though it wasn’t much.

  And I travelled with de Grey, running to keep up with his horse, when he journeyed round Gwynedd, and needed me to translate his wants to the barbarians who lived there. I went with him to Caernarfon when King Edward and Queen Eleanor came to honour their new kingdom with a visit. Edward had come to see the castle that was being built for him there, with its walls that were to be high and sturdy enough to make sure no Cymro would ever see liberty again. All of King Edward’s new lords and sheriffs and officers of Gwynedd were there, to show that Prince Llewelyn’s old kingdom would now be ruled in the Saxon way, like any shire of England. Edward wore Llewelyn’s crown and afterwards he and Eleanor, being fond of the stories of King Arthur, took their party on a pleasing little journey round their new realm, to see some of the places in Arthur’s tales. And I’m sure neither of them troubled to remember that Arthur was a hero of the Britons, our own ancestors, who’d fought and beaten Edward’s Saxon kin.

  Finally Prior Hywel gave me a post at Conwy Priory and I escaped from de Grey’s household. Being married I couldn’t take orders so he made me a clerk, looking after the stores and reading at the lectern just like I had done years before. But even here time had done its work. By royal co
mmand the priory that I’d known and loved was no more, broken down and moved so Edward could build another of his fine new castles. Myfanwy and our children, three of them now, lived in a simple hut high up the valley, watching as a new priory was made.

  All the while there was a thought that wouldn’t let me be, and was like an accusing finger wagging at me. Of all the gifts I’d had and all the debts I’d owed for them, I’d forgotten the one that was very greatest of all. I’d forgotten the gifts given to me by my own country, of my language, of spirit, of liberty. Worst were the times when I woke in the night, having dreamed that I was back in Denbigh, none of it had happened, and Dafydd was talking some nonsense and looking at me with his anxious eyes, wanting to be liked. Then my eyes would open and I’d remember, almost like it was something new, that the sun had fallen and my world had died. My land was no more. Worse, I was the one who’d given them our last prince.

  Myfanwy fretted about the dark rings I had under my eyes, and how silent I’d become, hardly saying a word to anyone, and speaking so quietly that even when I read from the lectern nobody could hear. She was forever urging me to eat. ‘Can’t you see, you’re starving yourself to death,’ she’d say. I just found it hard to feel hungry. ‘Just be glad we’re all still here,’ she’d tell me. ‘If you hadn’t done it then somebody else would have. I beg you, be kindly to yourself, Iorwerth.’ Finally, when nothing she did seemed to help, she brought Prior Hywel to talk to me, and he was the one who said I should go to Rome. ‘What you need is to repent and be forgiven,’ he said, ‘and there’s nobody better to urge God to forgive you than Saint Peter. And while you’re there you can do something for the abbey,’ because some years back he’d appealed to the pope’s court for recompense for the lands that the Saxons had taken to build their castle, as the lands they’d given had been smaller and poorer. I could see Myfanwy was troubled at the thought of my journeying so far but she gave her accord. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ she said, ‘but anything’s better than seeing you stay and waste away.’

  So it was decided. Prior Hywel gave me silver from the priory to keep me on the road, then he wrote a script to take to the pope’s court, and my testimonial, in Cymraeg, Latin, French and Saxon. Then he blessed my scrip and my staff and early one September morning, with many tears, I bade farewell to my dear Myfanwy and our three little ones and I set off. It was strange, though. I’d see the hills and fields and villages as I went along but it felt like they lay behind a kind of curtain and weren’t quite there, not truly. Though it was hard to feel joy, I walked and did what I must. After a couple of days I left singing Cymraeg voices behind and heard only flat, Saxon talk. I’d been to England a few times of course, with Dafydd before the war and then with Prior Hywel, though I’d never gone further than Chester. What a wide land it was, and how rich, with green fields everywhere you looked. Gwynedd’s best farming land was Anglesey while here were a thousand Angleseys and more. No mistaking, when the Saxons stole this island from us, they kept the best for themselves and left the worst to us, its rightful owners.

  When I was still close to home nobody was bothered where I was from, as they’d have seen plenty of Cymry go by, but as I went further, past Nantwich, and my feet felt the miles, I was met with hard faces and jeering smiles. I soon grew tired of it and so, when people on the road heard my strange way of talking and asked where I was from, I’d pick another nation, any that came to mind. Scottish or Irish were no use, I found, as they made me hardly more welcome than I’d been as Cymraeg, or Welsh as they called me. Matters were better but not much better when I was French, Castilian, Italian or a Greek Roman from Byzantium. If I picked some faraway place whose name I’d heard, like Bohemia or Dalmatia, I’d get wary looks for not being clear and known. I was best liked as a German, a Dane, a Swede, a Fleming or a Dutchman, so usually I chose one of them.

  I’d hoped I might miss London altogether but there was no avoiding the place as I had to cross the bridge. Walking through those crowded, noisy streets I felt that if hell had a cousin on earth this was surely it, and looking at the throng shoving by I was amazed anew at my countrymen’s foolishness. How had Llewelyn and Dafydd ever hoped to win against these great hordes? And now they were both here, poor fellows. When I walked over London Bridge I tried not to look but I couldn’t stop myself and there they were above the Tower, no mistaking, two little dots atop their poles.

  It was a relief to me when I left the ship at Calais and found myself in France. Now at least I didn’t need to pretend myself Flemish or Aragonese. The land was dreary, flat and more flat, with only the hope of a big river to divert the eye, but the people were friendly, most of them. When I told them I came from Cymru, or the land of the Gauls as they called it, they’d smile and make me welcome. Then the French had had their own troubles with the Saxons. I heard a good deal of talk about the Battle of Bouvines, when they’d fought them and Flemings together and given them both a good beating. ‘Next time we’ll come and help you,’ they’d say to me. Which I thanked them for, though all the while I was thinking, it’s too late now. You should have come seven years ago, as that would have been of some use.

  After a week or so the land grew less dreary to the eye, becoming hillier with some fair-looking towns and fine churches, especially at Lauon and Rains, but my spirits were still low, and it didn’t help that in a little village that I reached after the town of Chalons, I was taken sick with a fever and had to stop for several days. The villagers were kindly enough, bringing me food and potions to drink, but I was left much weakened. And that was when I met some unwelcome fellow pilgrims. It was raining hard and the road was chalky, so I had to be careful not to slip, and I was plodding along, none too fast after my sickness, and in my own sorry thoughts, when I heard a shout, in Saxon, of, ‘And good morning to you, cousin,’ and turning round I saw a great crowd was just a few yards behind me. How they’d crept up on me I couldn’t say. Pilgrims or not, the last thing I wanted was to go walking with a throng of Saxons, sneering at my countrymen and crowing at their victories. So I hurried on with all the pace I could manage, and left them behind. And how right I’d been. An hour or two later I was having my lunch, sheltering from the wet among trees by the roadside, and there they were again, coming up the road behind me and snarling in Saxon, saying I’d insulted their ladies and demanding to know why I hadn’t stopped. As if they had some God-given right to my company? I sped away almost at a run, chewing down my bread as I went.

  That put some pace into my legs, I can tell you. All that day I kept glancing behind me to be sure they weren’t sneaking up on me again but there was no sign of them. As I went on and days passed I hoped they’d peeled off onto another way, to Santiago in Spain perhaps? Or that they’d drowned themselves in some river. For a couple of days I walked with a group of French from a little town in the south, who were merry enough, till their road took them away from mine and we said our farewells. I must have slowed my walking because then, as I journeyed through jagged country, all gorges and chasms, towards a place called Besantion, I stopped for a rest, looked back and there were the Saxons again, far down the road behind me. They must be journeying to Rome as I was. That was poor luck. I walked on as fast as I was able and as I heard no shouts I guessed they hadn’t seen me this time, which was one blessing. That night I didn’t stop at the pilgrim hostel in the town, where they were sure to stay, but I slept in a barn an hour or so beyond.

  The next morning the farmer whose barn I’d slept in asked me to help him mend the broken wheel of his cart, which I couldn’t say no to, and which took a while, so when it was done I kept glancing over my shoulder in case the Saxons were close behind me. The road soon led into forest, which wasn’t my favourite kind of country as, being alone, I feared I might be set upon and robbed. The wood grew darker then lighter and then darker again, till I saw a little patch of white through the tree trunks. Someone was there. I gripped my staff tight, readying myself for a fight, only to hear a scream as a figure jumped up
and I saw this wasn’t any forest robbers after all but a female, not a young one, with wild hair and staring eyes who was wearing a dress like none you ever saw, half white cloth and half what looked like bedclothes. Stranger again she shouted out, in Saxon, ‘The ravager, the ravager. Dear sweet Jesus, protect me.’

  A madwoman. And not a sweet-smelling one either. As I stepped round her I caught a strong whiff of latrines. That was strange, though. Seeing as she’d screamed and called me a ravager I thought she’d be happy to see me gone but as I walked on I could hear her steps close behind me. After a while had passed I heard her call out, ‘What’s your name, friend?’ It seemed the reeking Saxon madwoman wanted my company now. Having no wish for hers, I remembered the gaming I’d done in her country and told her, ‘No English. Me Hungary.’ That’ll get rid of her, I thought, walking on at a good speed, but it wasn’t so easy as that. I’d hear a twig snap and when I looked back there’d she be, three or four paces behind me, giving me a demoniac smile. She was a fast old bird, no denying.

  Perhaps she was scared of walking alone in the woods? But when the trees came to an end and the path reached open country there she was still, three paces behind, so it was like an invisible cord tied us together. Now she was gabbling and for a moment I supposed she was talking to me, till I realized it was me she was talking about. ‘He’s Hungarian, you see,’ she recounted, to nobody, as there was nobody there except the two of us. ‘I know, I know, but I don’t think so now. It’s just that he looks like one. Yes, it’s so thick you can hardly see his face at all. And he ran away from us, not once but twice.’