Children of Clun

by Robert Nicholls

  Lady Margaret, however, after Joan left, was quick to argue for patience.

  “Pshaw! She’s taken you in! I don’t believe her for a minute! Travelling for pleasure? Here? In this remote place? This close to the Welsh border? At this time of the year? With the weather changing for the worse even as we speak? I hardly think so! No, there’s something she’s hiding, husband – something we’re missing. We have to dig deeper!”

  Roland crossed his hands behind his back and strode thoughtfully to the window. He’d been willing to accept Joan’s story but, as the wind moaned its ghostly, tuneless fluting in the long stone passageways of the castle, his wife’s warning was drawing him back to wariness.

  In the courtyard, far below the narrow window, peasants, traders and craftsmen were coming and going – siphoning wealth from the countryside into the bellies and pockets of great and noble people like himself! It occurred to him, not for the first time, how beautiful and unchanging such activity was! A castle’s courtyard was the centre of a little world and everyone in that world came, at some time, to the centre. There, for example, was Father Reginald, waddling purposefully through the gate. An honest man, he’d been told – as priests go. And that was when the idea occurred to him.

  “A messenger!” he declared hotly. “We’ll send a messenger! To London! To the king himself! To thank him for the faith he’s put in us – entrusting his niece to our care! Then at least we’ll know that he knows she’s here! And just in passing, we’ll ask if we can expect any part of his army to come here! To help us . . . you know . . . to replace those peasants we’ve lost to his service! To ensure the security of this desolate and unsettled corner of his realm! What say? P’raps we could even convince him of the need for another thrashing of the Welsh! They being so recently a defiant and disruptive force against his family’s rule!”

  “Ohh, my dear!” Lady Margaret smiled. “Perfect! And what a clever way of off-handedly letting him know that we have no more peasants to spare for his war! Oh yes! I like it! P’raps something can yet be made of this awful wilderness! And, in passing, we’ll send appropriate wishes for a successful delivery of the Queen’s child!”

  Even as she spoke, Roland was sniffing out further possibilities for his own advancement and wealth.

  “We’ll send the priest!” he declared, mightily impressed with his own brilliance. “That way, he can live off his church brethren on the journey! And it won’t cost us a penny!”

  Margaret clasped her cold hands over her equally cold breasts and smiled broadly. The best part, in her eyes, was that such a messenger would divert any future blame from them if Joan’s journey went awry. But was the priest up to such a journey? On his own? With winter in the air? Mightn’t he need an escort? Who could they spare?

  At that moment, there came a banging on the door and Lazy Davey, the kitchen boy, entered with their breakfasts. Both turned appraising eyes on him. Kitchen boys, they thought at one and the same time – especially lazy ones – are perfectly expendable items in a household’s budget.

  “You, boy!” said Roland, fixing Davey in place with a pointing finger. “You must pick yourself a brave and stalwart friend,” (Davey blinked his eyes and thought of Hubert) “someone worthy of great honour,” (Davey gulped and felt his knees begin to tremble), “someone you’d like to introduce to the court of King Henry the Fifth of England!”

  A pewter pitcher of cider slipped from the corner of Davey’s tray and clattered on the stone floor.

  * * * *

  A finger of the wind immediately scooped up the sound and raced it away to an adjoining room where it sounded, to Mary Gordon, Effemy and Annabel, like the toll of a breaking bell. All turned their heads to listen. Despite the urgency of their purpose in travelling to Clun, they had lain awake much of the night, anguishing over, among other things, the strange and uncharacteristic disappearance of Sir Angus. If, as Annabel suspected, they had walked into a trap, disposing of their knight protector would be the first, logical act of their enemy. Disposing of the three of them, would be the second act.

  “We should have gone in the night!” Effemy wept on hearing the ruckus caused by Davey’s clumsiness. “Why wouldn’t you listen to me? We could have taken the horses. . . . slipped away! We’d be miles off by now!”

  But Mary placed her arms protectively about Effemy and hushed her. They had travelled too far, she pointed out yet again. They’d risked too much and the project was too important. Panic was not yet in order.

  “I think it’s alright!” Annabel said steadily. “If they were going to come, surely they’d’ve come in the night! And that wasn’t the sound of a sword! A cup, maybe, but not a sword.”

  “Still nothing but ‘maybes’!” Effemy cried. And she was right!

  * * * *

  The wind had also seen Myfanwy’s friend, Tom the sharpener, riding away from the castle on a middle-aged mare that he’d charmed away from Lazy Davey. The wind and various villagers watched with bemusement as they ambled away, down the self-same path taken by the lost knights, into the wild forest.

  At the same time, in a storm-tousled meadow near the castle, the wind was nodding its recognition of Myfanwy as she read the portent of the clouds. Storms and sudden changes in the weather carried omens which sometimes they’d reveal to Myfanwy. Today, though, the wind preferred to keep its secrets.

  And lastly, the wind had seen Brenton LeGros jump stiffly down from his perch in the oak in the deep forest. It had swirled about his muscular arms as he broke a stout staff from a fallen limb and wondered aloud where the wolves had gone. And that was a thing that the wind also knew.

  Chapter 8 – Into the Forest

  Wild Jack Sorespot and Roger Ringworm did share their rabbit, skinned, spitted and lightly roasted, with Madeleine and Anwen. It had, they said, stumbled into a snare they’d left near their camp. Their intention had been to cook it after nightfall, when smoke from the fire would be less visible, but the cry of the wolves had spoiled that plan. In the morning, however, not only had the combination of cold and hunger served to over-rule good sense, but the few bites each got had done little to stave off either.

  “Gotta get goin’!” Jack was insisting as he doused the flames and spread the ashes. “Reeve’ll be onto that smoke!”

  “You better know he will!” Madeleine croaked, gathering her outrage about her. “So you boys better let us go, now! ‘Cause if ‘e catches ye, ye’ll be sorrier’n rats in a barn full o’ terriers!”

  “Huh?” said Roger and shook his head rapidly.

  But Jack, unexpectedly, waved them away. The blow Madeleine had given him and the night-time threat of the wolves had convinced him that the effort needed to force these girls on through the forest, as far as they had to go, was too great. They would have to come of their own free will or not come at all.

  “Sure,” he said, with a large measure of cunning. “You go on, then! You ain’ gonna be any help anyhow. My mistake. Just you find yer own road, though. ‘Cause we ain’ ever goin’ yer way.”

  The girls were gob-smacked. They could go? But which way? Suddenly, all directions in the forest looked the same. Then Jack added pointedly, “Youse mind out for them wolves too, won’tcha. Reckon they’ll be even hungrier’n we are this mornin’!”

  Roger nodded happily and, turning his face to the sky, began a not quite credible imitation of a wolf’s howl. “Owooooooooo!”

  It was quickly cut short when Jack reached out and slapped the back of Roger’s head. “What’re ye doin’? Have ye got any idea what you might be sayin’ in wolf talk? Could be tellin’ ‘em to come over here an’ eat yer stupid self, for all you know! Jus’ keep quiet, why doncha!”

  Roger’s mouth sagged open, his single peg glistening in the early light. Madeleine and Anwen stepped a step closer to one another and clasped hands. All four strained their ears to see if there’d be an answering call. There wasn’t.

  In a moment, Madeleine hissed, “What’s goin’ on wi’ you boys?
Why’d ye bring us here? Now we’re lost in the forest wi’ two no-good boyos an’ don’ know which way’s to go!”

  If she’d been a crying sort of person, this would have been a time for tears. Instead, as always, her anger flared, though in the strange way of things, it focussed mostly on her father. Why wasn’t he here to protect them? He’d had hours to find them! Why didn’t he walk into this clearing right now and send these boys running for their scrawny lives? Had he really come good on his threat and washed his hands of them?

  Her anger was great, but it served only as a catalyst to Jack’s disdain. He thrust his chin out and, “Don’ think for a minute that we’s lost, missy!” he snarled. “We knows ‘zackly where we are. An’ don’ start bawlin’, neither!” he rasped at Anwen. “We wuz never gonna hurt yez. We wuz jus’ thinkin’ ye might be able to give some help with somethin’ important! But now I see youse are too little to help. So go on, then! Get off!”

  Jack began to cough once again, doubled over, barking uncontrollably at the ground. Madeleine and Anwen looked at one another. Madeleine’s back straightened noticeably and Anwen quickly wiped away all trace of tears. ‘Too little?’ their gazes said. ‘Us?’ Both Madeleine and Anwen would have been hard pressed to imagine challenges that they were ‘too little’ for. Girls of their age were often married and running households! No fault of theirs that they were still in their father’s house! Jack’s comment only showed how ignorant and wild he really was!

  “Help ye do what?” Anwen demanded.

  * * * *

  Some distance away, Brenton LeGros had begun his trek back to Clun. In his quiet, uncomplaining way, he was headed back to the peace of his life in the village, none the worse for a night in the forest and with a sturdy new staff to support him. But a strange, unwolfly wolf howl, just moments before it would be lost to all hearing, managed a faint tap on his eardrum.

  Brenton stopped and listened. It wasn’t repeated. Sssshhh, the wind in the trees seemed to be saying. Can’t tell – can’t tell – can’t tell!

  It wasn’t an answer Brenton appreciated. Along with the far-off cries of girls that he’d heard yesterday, that cry was altogether too odd indeed! And so, with a good-natured nod to himself, he decided to investigate just a little further. In much the same way, off in a different direction, a large grey timber wolf and his two smaller black mates made the same decision.

  * * * *

  As for Sirs Cyril and Angus, the mistake they’d made in picking their direction had taken them farther than ever from Clun. The narrow road had become a mere woodland path. It wound over hill and dale, through streams and marshes, crossing so many other paths that they’d become completely disoriented.

  At one intersection, they saw a stake driven into the ground with a small number of obviously human bones, scattered about it. It was a reminder of at least one of the options for justice in this wild corner of England. Sir Cyril wagged his head and his hand went unconsciously to the hilt of his sword.

  “Can’t be many travellers out here to see that message, you wouldn’t think.”

  “Mmm,” said ‘Sir Angus. “But a message it certainly is! This be brigands’ territory. Highway men! Perhaps lurking very near. Along the King’s highway.”

  “Highway!” sniffed Sir Cyril, who was much more used to the broad carriage-ways around London. “A desperate poor excuse for a highway, I’d’ve said!”

  “Well,” said Sir Angus, “highway or no – and brigands or no – if we don’t find our way soon, our own bones will be added to those on the roadside! I’m so hungry, I could eat this miserable horse.”

  The horse snuffled and shook its head resignedly. A watcher in the forest (and there was a watcher in the forest) could have seen it roll its eyes, wondering (as, indeed, the watcher in the forest was wondering) at the carelessness of knights who wandered so far from stable and feed.

  * * * *

  Several miles behind, Tom the sharpener rode pensively along. His ancient mare was a horse no self-respecting knight would have ridden, but she suited Tom’s purpose and she seemed confident to walk this path. Tom, as bored and lonely people will sometimes do, had started a one-sided conversation with her.

  “Two questions for you, Dobbin,” he was saying. “First – and your honest opinion, mind – is it a fool’s errand I’m on? Or am I, at long last, really going to find him?"

  Dobbin lifted her head, glanced to left and right, and nickered softly.

  “Ahh,” said Tom, also glancing to the left and right. “Well . . . I hope you’re wrong about that! Second question, then. And again, be truthful, Dobbin. I won’t hold it against you if the answer is no.” He patted her neck gently and added, “I only ask because . . . well, I’ve been a long time away from these forest trails, you understand. And the trees – they’re all beginning to look the same! So! The question is, will you know your way home again, Dobbin?”

  This time, Dobbin offered no comment. Tom chose to take that as the indignant silence of one who’s been mildly insulted. In fact, Dobbin’s mind had simply wandered away into daydreams of a leggy stallion who’d winked at her yesterday while grazing on the common. Not that any of that was going to matter in the immediate future.

  * * * *

  On an altogether different forest path, Gwilym, Rhodri and Eustace each took a last opportunity to glance behind them. The next time they looked, they knew, the cleared fields around Clun would be hidden by trees.

  None of these three was a woodsman. Despite Gwilym’s high position as reeve and the small status the other two had gained as archers, they were all farmers at heart. They sometimes skirted the edges of the forest to gather acorns or poach one of the lord’s deer or gather firewood. They sometimes ventured a little way in, to seek out special woods, like the yew for bows or the great beech trees that were protected by law except as a source for arrows.

  They knew the forest’s uses, alright. But they also knew of the many reasons to avoid it. Stories were told of terrible beasts that lurked there and of impish woodland fairies that wove spells – spells that could lead men to terrible dooms. The trees themselves, it was said, could come alive and whisper madness into men’s minds. Stories of the great magician, Merlin, were still whispered with awe and, in some, he himself was believed to live on in the soul of some great tree. In short, everyone knew that people who entered the forest risked never seeing their homes again. Were it not for the fatherly passion that drove Gwilym, he would never have walked those perilous, unknown paths. And, were it not for his threat of violence, neither would Eustace or Rhodri. Both bowmen notched arrows to their weapons.

  “How we gonna know if we’re going the right way?” Rhodri whispered.

  “Sshh!” hissed Gwilym. They turned away from the comforting vision of Clun.

  Ssssshhhhhh, the trees echoed and blanked out the sky above them.

  Chapter 9 – Locked In

  Back in the village, work was continuing, as it must if folks were to survive the coming winter. Few in the village (excepting the very youngest) had escaped hearing the belly growl that signalled a visit by the season’s oldest friend – Famine. Gwilym’s responsibilities and skills as reeve – organising labour, checking records, supervising storage – they were essential parts in the task of keeping bellies full. Not even lost girls would be allowed, for long, to hold up the slaughter of the extra animals.

  Up in the castle, Jenny Talbot had sent Maude and Branwen off early to work in the buttery. There was cream to be skimmed from the milk and then churned with four-bladed paddles into tubs of butter. The work was physical and warming and the morning passed quickly. Which was just as well, considering the helpless sense of agony each felt when imagining the fates of Madeleine and Anwen.

  “What if fairies took ‘em?” Branwen suggested, wide-eyed with terror at the possibility. “Fairies steal your mem’ries away, you know! They lock folks up inside trees. That’s what they do! That’s what the creakin’ is in the forest when the wind b
lows! It’s children, locked up in trees, cryin’ out to have their mem’ries back!”

  Each suggestion they came up with was more fearful than the last. Eventually, having well and truly salted the new butter with their tears, they reached a quiet point of near exhaustion. They crept into an empty stall, out of sight and out of the draught, to rest. They shared a cup of buttermilk (surely the pigs wouldn’t be any the worse for loss of one cup!) and Branwen settled almost immediately into a light sleep.

  Maude wished that she too could doze off, as peacefully as a cat with a curl of buttermilk at the corner of its whiskers. But she couldn’t. She hadn’t slept easily in days. First there’d been her father’s clumsy decision to start marrying off his daughters. Then her dreams had started showing up in broad daylight, as bold as thieves! And now she found herself thrust into the service of frighteningly exotic people! And by all accounts, her sisters had gone missing! Just the prospect of what could happen if she dozed off had become nerve-jangling enough to keep her wide awake.

  As Branwen slept, then, she sat in the prickly straw, her back to the ancient wood of the stall, her tears streaming, cursing herself for her weakness. She didn’t fully believe in the fairy trick of locking children into trees. But she did certainly believe that people’s souls could be stolen or depleted. People on their own! Lost people! Weak people! Thank God, she thought, neither Anwen nor Madeleine was timid or faint-hearted! But what of her helpless, hopeless self? There were times when she wondered if her own soul hadn’t already been stolen away.

  Of a sudden, a voice cried out. “Three horses! Three fine horses!” It was Davey’s voice and the sound of his running feet followed close on. “Important messages! Important people! Straight away for London! Straight away for King Henry!”

  His words tumbled over one another, like chickens scattering before a fox, causing Branwen to snap immediately into wakefulness and Maude to place a hand over her mouth, signalling for silence. She could picture Davey’s bug-eyed, wet-nosed excitement; like a puppy that inisists on jumping against you.