* * * *
As for Sir Roland and Lady Margaret, they crawled back under the bedclothes and spent some time talking desultorily about the cruel pressure that had brought them to Clun. As inheritances went, this one – Clun Castle and village – was undeniably a dud! The village, the castle, the surrounding farmlands – they were all too ruinous and decrepit to be of real value. Damn the Duchess and damn her spoiled brat of a daughter! Had it not been for their special request that Joan be received at Clun, they would never have come to this place! And if they’d not come, they’d not be, as it was increasingly obvious they were, embroiled in the midst of some mystifying deviousness! Their home castle, at Hampton Court, in Herefordshire was not so terribly far away in miles, but seemed a world away in their minds.
They talked the problem over and through until each arrived at a conclusion that suited their termperment. Margaret’s was to continue her meditations in a tub of hot water. Not only would it take the chill off, but sending Susan to fetch the wooden tub and to instruct the ewerer to start heating the water would get the girl out amongst the lesser servants where stories may be circulating.
Roland’s conclusion was that only by confronting those deceptive and all-too-tricky young Scots would he learn the truth. He decided to do just that.
Chapter 20 – Roland’s Challenge
The woman who called herself Mary Gordon had, of course, slept in the same large bed as the ladies Annabel and Effemy. It was the custom for people to share warmth and company when practical. In their late night whispering, they’d determined to start, straight after the large mid-morning meal, on their return journey to Scotland. The meeting with Lady Joan de Beaufort had been achieved and they believed they’d made Scotland’s predicament clear and they believed that Joan was sympathetic. Now, they assured one another, it came down to trust – trust that Joan was mature enough to put someone else’s needs ahead of her own. Trust that she would inform James of his uncle’s ill health and his cousin’s desire for the throne. Trust that she would add whatever encouragement she could muster to make him end his long sojourn in London!
Effemy and Annabel had stoked their own fire, not having a Susan to do it for them. Their chamber pots they left by the door where servants would find them later and take them for emptying over the wall. Then, while Mary saw to their luggage, Effemy and Annabel went haughtily in search of Sir Angus. They could hardly, they noted, take leave without his attendance, to keep them safe on the roads.
They found him eventually, asleep in the Great Hall, lying on a table not far from Sir Cyril and several others who’d caroused too far into the night and failed to make it to their appropriate stations. Effemy, with a far-extended fingertip, poked him into consciousness.
“Sir Angus! For shame, Sir! Bad enough to leave your charges undefended while you traipse into the forest! Now, to abandon us in favour of an ale pot?”
He groaned and struggled to a more or less upright position.
“Ah! Ladies! I . . . I . . . !”
“You, you what, Sir?” demanded Annabel.
“I . . . I . . . !
He was clearly in very poor condition; bleary with chills, nose and fever running, hung over. He put his feet on the floor, braced himself against the table and vomited. By the time he was able to raise his head, Sir Cyril was also on his feet; no steadier than Angus, but peering about the hall with such magnificent contempt that Annabel and Effemy stepped closer to one another, the better to weather it. His glance at them was brief – just long enough for his stale, unhealthy breath to mist between them. Then he reached into his trousers and, with no concession to modesty, began urinating on the floor. Condensation dribbled down the mortared seams in the stone walls.
Effemy called in disgust for servants to stoke the fires and bring the men some food while Angus kicked bits of straw together to cover his vomit.
“Inexcusable!” he was muttering. “A slur on my honour! Make it up! Make it up! What may I do for you, ladies?”
“You may order yourself, Sir Angus!” declared Effemy. “Find something solid to put in your stomach! Then see to the horses! We leave Clun straight after the mid-day meal!”
He nodded – an act which started him gagging once again – and the two ladies, swept quickly away, seeking a much needed draught of fresh air.
* * * *
On the floor above, Sir Roland had come knock-knock-knocking on Mary Gordon’s door. Having decided finally to confront her, his inclination was simply to barge in and demand a straight telling. But caution won out and he stood impatiently for fully a count of three before Mary’s voice rang out, “Come!”
She had her back to the door, all her attention on her small trunk and elaborate saddlebags.
“The chamber pots can go,” she said without looking up, thinking a servant had arrived. “Then you can get us some bread and fresh water to break our fast with. Oh, and I’ll need a man to carry this trunk down.” She stood thoughtfully for a moment before adding, “I suppose I should send a message to Sir Roland and Lady Margaret, as well. Tell them . . .” She turned and saw Sir Roland, his lips pinched closed as tightly as a miser’s purse, his arms folded across his chest. “Oh!” she said.
“Tell ‘em what, Mistress Gordon?” His tone was that of a shopkeeper addressing a customer who’d been caught leaving without paying. “Not leaving us so soon?”
“Ahh, Sir Roland! Yes! Regretfully, we must go. You’ve been very hospitable but, you see, we are uninvited, unexpected guests and we mustn’t presume on you any longer.”
“Yes, well, harrumph! Since you bring it up, Mistress! Well off the beaten track, Clun! Not stumbled across by accident very often! See what I mean? Particularly not by Scots!” The suggestion was unspoken, but clear, and Mary was uneasily aware that something had changed in the outlook of her host.
“Sir Roland,” she lowered her head and gave him her most coquettish glance: “no mistake is too difficult for a foolish girl. We were meant to return directly to Scotland, from our visit to Shrewsbury. But I – against the advice of my friends – was desperate to visit St Milburga’s holy well. Stoke St Milborough seemed like it must be just a little way further on. And the weather was so fine.”
“So! A pilgrimage gone wrong? Bad luck to pull up in Clun!”
“Not all bad, Sir, since we’ve had the privilege of meeting you and your gracious wife! To his credit, I must say, Sir Angus did warn me that the way was difficult and he was unsure of it. But I, as I say, a foolish woman, insisted.” Mary’s smile was a triumph of feigned innocence and foolishness. “Thank you again for saving us from the storm.”
“Hmph!” Sir Roland snorted, but he did uncross his arms, opting to place his fists on his hips in a no less antagonistic stance. “Your man’s a fool,” he growled. “Letting inexperienced women have their way. Should have refused to come! Not without a proper local guide.”
“Indeed, Sir Roland. Sir Angus is a most chivalrous knight, but he is young, like myself. Whereas a man of your obvious . . . worldliness . . . would, I’m sure, never allow chivalrous impulses to over-rule good sense.”
“Yes, yes, well!” Roland’s resolve wavered for the briefest moment. The damned woman was packing her bags. It would be so easy just to let her go – get her out of his hair. But if even some skerrick of Susan’s garbled story was right, then this woman’s story was false! If, somewhere along the way, he was shown to have been fooled . . . ! He could not tolerate that.
“An example of my ‘good sense’, then, mistress!” he trumpeted. “I put it to you straight. There is a woman . . . a woman about your age . . . a Scots woman, like yourself. . . named Elizabeth Douglas. Her father would be Archibald Douglas . . . a great enemy of England.”
Mary’s smile flickered into an expression of concern, tinged with the tiniest dollop of fear. “Why so there is, Sir Roland! All in Scotland know of that famous knight! Though few, I fear, would know of his daughter! Why do you mention this?”
&n
bsp; “`Tyneman’, the man is called, I believe – Loser. Been on more losing sides in battle than a goose has laid eggs.” Sir Roland had developed a sudden delicious plan to wring from this woman whatever truth she contained. Like squeezing an apple for its juice, he thought. And if she’s crushed in the process . . . so what?
Mary’s eyes hardened ever so slightly and her lips became narrower and firmer. She wetted them with the tip of her tongue. “I have heard that name, yes. Though I have always thought it unworthy to be spoken by a knight.”
“Have you now? Well, worthy or not, truth has a way of being heard, mistress. Like for instance, this famed Sir Archibald. You might know he was amongst the scoundrels who fought against our army at Shrewsbury in ‘03. I was there! You wouldn’t have known that, would you? Twenty-one, I was, and newly blooded on the battlefield. Slaughtered as many Scots as we could lay our hands on, that day. And the ones who threw down their swords. . . they pissed in their armour! Held them for ransom, we did! Archibald was one of those.”
Mary’s back had stiffened perceptibly through Sir Roland’s rant and her eyes locked defiantly on his. “I am a mere woman, Sir Roland, and know nothing of pissing in armour. It is a matter of legend in my country, though, that Archibald Douglas took five wounds at Homildon Hill – and lost an eye in the process.” Her voice was steady and very soft. “Is there some moral to your tale?”
“Purpose of my tale, Mistress Gordon, simply to say that certain of my people think they’ve heard the name Elizabeth Douglas spoken within the bounds of this castle! I would find that wonderfully strange. And I’d wonder why that would be!”
Mary Gordon’s gaze was level and unwavering.
He continued on. “And I wonder, too, at the mention of the Plant Owain and this Glyndwr rogue in virtually the same breath!” Again, she didn’t answer. He could think of no other way to go but to imply that he knew more he really did know. “I say again, the truth about people always comes out. Don’t you think? Even steel plate cannot hide it.”
“So you’ve said, Sir Roland. The piss leaks out. We must never forget, of course. But there are many truths in the world – not all of them friendly with one another. Not all of them pleasant. I learned at my mother’s knee, that some are better left unspoken. For my part, I cannot account for what people think they’ve heard. Is it possible that they listened badly?”
This was, of course, his fear – that dim-witted Susan had misheard. He snarled, “Pleasant or not, this is what was heard. My course of action, though . . . if, for instance, this girl . . . this Elizabeth Douglas . . . if, by some chance, I discovered that . . .”
At that moment, Effemy and Annabel arrived at the open door, in mid-chatter. “Angus is sick! We’ve told him to . . . Oh! Sir Roland!”
They fell silent. The tension between the knight and their mistress was clear, the air as taut and tense as the skin on a pudding. Nostrils were flared, chins thrust out, complexions pale; he with his fists propped on his hips, she with hers clenched at her sides. Accusations hung between them like sparrows that butcher birds have impaled on thorns. It was he who broke contact first, lowering his hands and allowing a slim smirk to slide across his lips.
“There you have it!” he said. “The man’s unwell! Ye cannot travel wi’out ‘im. And so, my wife and I will have the pleasure of . . . getting to know you . . . a little better.”
Mary gave a little sideways nod of her head, a nod which might have said, “I’m at your service,” or it might have said, “I’m thinking you’ll regret that”. In either case, Sir Roland turned on his heel, brushed past Annabel and Effemy and was gone.
Mary exhaled a long, slow breath and the girls rushed to her. “He knows,” she said.
Both girls gasped in horror. Effemy slammed the door and leaned against it. “Knows what?” she demanded. “Knows our purpose? My God! What did he say?”
“He did everything but ask me directly if I was Elizabeth Douglas. He insulted my father – insinuated that he was a coward. He was trying to provoke me. I’m sure someone’s spoken to him . . . about who I am.”
“But not why you’re here? Nothing about the meeting with Lady Joan?”
“I think not. He didn’t mention her. But he’ll be trying to figure it out, now. My God, but the man has a temper! I think he might have struck me, if you hadn’t come!”
“We must not be apart from this point on!” said Annabel. “It’s too dangerous! And we must work out a way to leave, as soon as possible; with or without Sir Angus!”
“And one more thing,” said Elizabeth Douglas. “We must trust no one! There are spies in this castle!”
Chapter 21 – Maude Meets the Nobility
Sir Roland was moderately satisfied with himself. Another minute alone with the Scot and he’d certainly have squeezed some kind of truth from her, but no matter. Her instant defensiveness of the Douglas scoundrel was enough to condemn her in his eyes. He quickly formed three resolutions. The first was that, for now, the girl and her ladies would be treated in such a way that no complaint could be made against him. The second was that they would not be leaving. Not until he knew what their game was. And the third was to make it clear to everyone that he, and only he, would be master at Clun Castle.
He went directly to the Great Hall where, amongst a dozen or more other knights and ladies and servants (including Maude and Branwen), Sirs Angus and Cyril languished, their heads lolled on their arms. Roland made his way directly to the table and slammed his fist against it, inches from their drowsing ears. Angus hurled himself upright, barely stopping himself from falling backwards off the bench. Cyril’s eyes blinked open but an increasing agony in his neck and shoulders prevented him from rapid movement. He pushed himself slowly upright, finding himself unable to turn his head or unlock his shoulders. The booming fist had caused Branwen, who’d been sweeping straw from behind Angus, to lose control of the wicker broom. She and it had both fallen into the pile of fouled straw, not four arm-lengths from the raging Sir Roland. And there she cowered, too frightened to lift her eyes.
“Sirs!” bellowed Roland. “How do you sleep when danger is afoot?”
Cyril’s bloodshot and anguished eyes clicked, almost audibly, from side to side. Angus pinched his eyes closed and rubbed at them with the heels of his hands. A lash of drool angled off from his open mouth, across his chin and onto his jerkin.
“Yesterday, in the forest,” Sir Roland cried, addressing everyone in the hall, “these knights fought a great battle! Against an enemy that we in the Marches remember all too well! In consequence, I have decided that, until I can be certain of our safety, no one – I don’t care how noble they are – NO one, is to leave Clun Castle without my direct permission.” He turned his attention back to Angus and Cyril, placing his hands on the table and bending near. He spoke softly now, only for them. “Do you understand me, Sirs? No matter who asks or demands – I and I alone, am responsible. I and I alone, will decide who may or may not leave Clun. Clear?”
Angus nodded, wiped the spittle from his chin and nodded again. Cyril did his best to nod, though he needed to bob his whole upper body to make it visible.
Sir Roland stood, then, and looked about the room. There were no signs of dissension. The sight of Branwen, quivering on the floor, virtually at his feet, gave him one more idea. He nudged her with his toe.
“You. Up.”
Branwen peeped up at him and, realising that he expected her to stand, struggled to her feet. The front of her dress reeked of piss and vomit.
“Phaw!” he snorted, wrinkling his nose. “You’ll not do!” He looked around again and spotted Maude, clutching her broom as though she could hide her trembling body behind it. “You,” he said. He strode to her, smacked the broom from her hands, grasped her ear and started to lead her away. “I have a job for you.”
Chapter 22 – Madeleine and Anwen at Large
For Anwen, her sister’s experience with the bouncing skull was of little consequence. She’d go
ne back to her pallet and slept the sleep of the exhausted. Then she’d woken, full of optimism as was her nature, and determined to get to know her captors. To that end, she attached herself to Silent Richard and, with Roger, followed him on a fishing expedition to the stream that wound through the valley.
Madeleine, however, could find no such comfort. Well after sunrise, she continued to cower by the fire, soaked in a sort of terrified apprehension. In her mind, she was certain that the dead monk must be dead through the agency of the old fellows who now occupied this isolated former priory. Had they killed the holy men and simply left their corpses to decay where they died? Would there be other horrors waiting to meet them? Other, even more personal horrors?
The day, cold and bright, was well under way before her natural spirit of challenge began to rebound. She’d been sitting to one side of the hearth, brooding and prodding at both fires – the one that flamed before her and the one that flared in her mind. She feared, but needed to know, what had happened here in the past. And she needed to know what was to happen to herself and Annie. How else to find out than by asking questions?
Most of the men had drifted out of the dormitory to, she knew not where, but Jack was there, lying down – very sore, slightly feverish, his leg wound raw and bloody. He was being kept company by Jeremy Talbot, who’d spent his morning splitting feathers for arrows and sharing the occasional mumbled comment with the reclining boy. When Madeleine approached them, she stood staring at the floor between them, uncertain how and where to begin.
“How’re ye then, girlie?” asked Jeremy without looking up from his work. “Over yer fright?”
“Youse’ve done a wicked thing,” she said.
“Oh yes!” Jeremy declared happily. “An’ not jus’ the one, neither! More wicked things ‘n’ there are worms in an acre o’ ground! Far too many fer an ol’ man to remember.” He stopped shaving the feather and stared away at the fire for a moment. “Though,” he added, “there was one or two outstandin’ wicked things that I can still bring to mind! Very enjoyable!”
“God will toast the lot o’ youse, fer what you done to them holy fathers an’ fer stealin’ away perfeckly happy people like me an’ Annie.”
Children of Clun Page 16
