Maude glanced about in panic, barely even hearing the instructions.
“I don’ know what else them fancy French froggies might expect of ye,” Susan continued, “but ‘im lookin’ like he does,” (she gave Maude a lewd and knowing glance), “I’d be likely to give ‘im whatever he wanted if I was you.”
They finished the walk, Maude three paces behind, in a silence that was broken only by the echo of their footsteps and, for Maude, by the terrified banging of her heart. But at the door to de Coucy’s chamber, Susan suddenly turned, grasped Maude’s wrist and, twisting and pinching, pushed her against the wall.
“One last thing,” she snarled. “Sir Roland and Lady Margaret, they got their ‘spishons ‘bout these French froggies. So you keep yer ears open. You hear anythin’ – anythin’ at all – ‘bout anythin’, you tell me, see? An’ I pass it on to Sir Roland. Got it?”
Maude, of course, got none of it, since watching and tattling were simply not parts of her nature.The tears began again to roll from her eyes. It was only the strange visitor in her mind that stopped her from turning tail and running. That, and the fact that, at that moment, the door opened to reveal a frowning Sir Perceval.
“Bonjour - hallo!” he said in surprise. “Qu’est ce que c’est? Some extra ears, listening at my door?”
Susan’s grip turned instantly to a gentle, tidying pat before she curtsied to him and fell into the posture of a humble serving girl.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, yer Lordship.” She glanced up at him from beneath lowered eyes. He was a very beautiful man. “This ‘ere girl is sent by Lady Margaret, who’s my mistress. She’s to be chambermaid to you an’ Lady Marie an’ Lady Joan. She’s a village girl an’ don’ know nothin’ about proper service, but she’s all we got. My name’s Susan. If there’s anythin’ I can do for you . . . ?” She smiled what she hope would be her most appealing smile.
Perceval glanced back and forth between the two girls – one wiping away tears, the other simpering and flirtatious.
“Merci, Susan,” he said, choosing to ignore the flirting, “Lady Margaret is most thoughtful.” Even his voice was beautiful – warm, smooth and lightly accented. “And,” he continued, raising a querulous brow, “this village girl . . . she also has a name?”
“Maude,” squeaked Maude.
Susan’s arm flicked out, her knuckles snapping against Maude’s arm. “Say, ‘Maude, your Lordship!” she hissed and, to Perceval, “She don’ know nothin’, Sir Perceval. Might be you’ll have to flog some manners into ‘er, I expect.”
She gave Maude a meaning look, curtsied again to Sir Perceval and said, “If you’ll ‘scuse me now, I have ever so many jobs to do for Lady Margaret She needs me to be in callin’ distance.” She spun on her heel and strode away with a self-important air.
Maude stood rigidly, wondering if she should try a curtsy as well, but fearing that her legs would give out if she did. Her experiences so far in the castle told her that great knights could well think of a brisk flogging as an appropriate response, either way.
* * * *
“Well, Maude,” he said softly. “There is much dust in the air today, non? I think you have some in your eyes, perhaps. And so, the first task – before I can present you to their ladyships – you must rid yourself of these tears!” She quickly raised the sleeve of her borrowed dress, wiping her eyes and her nose in the one gesture. Perceval’s own eyes narrowed and his head tilted thoughtfully. “Ah! Yes. So much better, n’est ce pas? Now, tell me. You are missing your home in the village, eh?”
“Yes, your Lordship,” is what she tried to say, though the fourth syllable emerged as a hiccup that nearly started her crying again.
He glanced back into the room then leaned toward her to whisper confidentially.
“You must not be frightened, Maude. Grand ladies can be very demanding. But remember! What you do for them, they cannot do for themselves. Helpless and lost, they are, without you – like children! You see? That makes you a very important person, Maude!”
He swung the door wide, allowing her to creep timidly, sniffling like a condemned girl, into the privileged realm of nobility.
Chapter 25 – Unexpected Shelter
Sir Perceval was not good at lounging. He needed barely any excuse at all to be up and going – down into the courtyard, around the curtain wall, into the village. He inquired into everything, listened carefully to answers and forgot nothing. It was he who returned in the early evening with the news that the two girls, those so nearly rescued by Sirs Angus and Cyril, three days before, had re-appeared in the village. They’d arrived, it seemed, in the company of a man – also a peasant from the village. The girls, he told Marie and Joan (while Maude listened) had already been brought to the castle and placed under guard, high in the keep. The story was that Sir Roland would question them himself about the rogues who’d dared to attack two of the king’s knights. The young man who’d accompanied them would also be questioned once found. Suspiciously, he’d no sooner appeared than disappeared.
“Ridiculous!” Marie had declared. “Mon dieu! Peasant girls? Locked away under guard? What can the man possibly be thinking?”
Maude, however, despite the panic induced in her by those she now served, was wild with relief. She could not resist blurting out that the girls were her sisters and begging Perceval to learn if they were unharmed. Glad of the activity, he went off again but returned shortly, long of face. He’d encountered Susan in the hall and she, entranced by his charm, had become foolishly loose of tongue.
“Them girls is spies!” she’d declared. “Sir Roland reckons they bin carryin’ messages. Between them miserable, rebel’ous villagers in Clun an’ a great Welsh army hidin’ in the forest! I ‘eard ‘im say so to Lady Margaret! Might be gonna be some battlin’ and warrin’! Ye’ll wanna keep a close eye on that village girl – thinkin’ o’ yer wife, ‘n’ all, yer Lordship! Might be you’ll need to take ‘er out an’ chuck ‘er off the wall! Reckon that’s what Sir Roland might be thinkin’ of wi’ them other two if they don’ give up what they knows!”
* * * *
Brenton LeGros had no intention of falling into the hands of Samuel Rowe or Sir Roland or anyone else who might put limitations on his freedom. When he fled from the alehouse, the darkness was deep enough to swallow up his shadow. Nevertheless, as he weaved silently amongst the village huts, the startled barking of dogs and the honking of the ever-vigilant geese marked his trail clearly for his single pursuer.
There are few places for a hunted man to hide in a tiny village like Clun and Brenton was beginning to think that he must either return to the forest or surrender. And, he asked himself, why not surrender? He’d done nothing wrong! Still, he knew that, if the ‘Children of Owain’ had killed, as well as robbed, the knights in the forest (for fear of knowing, he’d avoided asking) the nobility would be looking for necks to break in revenge. For a young man who just wanted to be left alone – to work the land and be at peace – neither surrender nor retreat was an attractive option.
When eventually he came to a stop, it was to sit on a woodpile and hold his head in despair. His wound ached, the night was cold, his home was guarded against him and Annie was being hauled away to the castle! And quite suddenly, to his astonishment, he was not alone. One minute the space beside him on the wood pile was empty; the next it was occupied.
“Follow me,” a man’s voice whispered. “I know a place.”
“Who’s that?” hissed Brenton.
“Not now! They’re searching the village for you. Stay low and follow.”
The shadow moved off and Brenton, for want of a better plan, followed. He found himself being led closer to the castle – so close that his nerve began to fail. Was this some cunning ruse to draw him into a trap? Then he realised it was to the common, outside the castle, toward the wagon of the Cunning Woman that he was being led. He hadn’t met her himself, but the village had been abuzz about her the morning he’d entered the forest. Eerie and frig
htening, were two of the words he’d heard. Approaching the wagon now, he could see the glow of a low fire. Someone was carefully husbanding the meagre fuel they’d been allotted by Samuel Rowe.
Gradually, firelight lit the ghostly, grim face of the soothsayer and also gave solid outline to the figure Brenton was following. As soon as the woman saw them, she rose and clambered into the back of the two-wheeled cart. The cart was small; so small that, at best, it might have been able to hold two standing horses if the horses didn’t mind rubbing shoulders. Nevertheless, Brenton’s guide vaulted in behind the woman and held the flap for him. Again, he saw no option but to follow.
Inside, a tiny tallow candle burned at floor level. It cast shadows that flickered wildly with the rush of movement. It also cast enough light to show the faces of the people in whose company Brenton had landed. One was, of course, Myfanwy, the fortune-teller. Her square, heavy face and flyaway hair were distinctive, as were the front teeth that leaned across one another, like permanently crossed fingers. The other figure, when it emerged from the dark woollen cape, proved to be Tom, the sharpener.
“Sit,” whispered Tom, though the cart was so small that Brenton could scarcely have done otherwise with his vast frame. Myfanwy lifted the candle and they arranged themselves around it, like three spokes looking at the hub of a wheel. Myfanwy gazed at Brenton with unblinking interest. She reached out and, not quite touching him, ran her hands along the contours of his face and torso.
Then, “The wounded one,” she sighed, barely audibly, sitting back and pointing at the location of the scar. “But the children – they are still lost.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“No,” said Tom, “they’re home. At least they’re in the castle. Sir Roland . . .”
Myfanwy held up a hand. “All the children – both young and old – they are lost – in great danger. Not tonight, but soon.”
Her eyes seemed to Brenton to glitter in the dim light, to bore into him. He tried to look away but found himself unable to, as though to break the connection might allow some terrible evil to escape into the world. Then her gaze fell to the candle. For long moments she studied it, searching, it seemed, for some truth at its core.
“The old man,” she murmured to whatever vision was in her mind’s eye. “The old man.” The sound came out like air seeping from a barely punctured bladder.
Brenton did manage, then, to tear his eyes away. He heaved a questioning glance toward Tom but Tom’s hand rose. Wait, it signalled.
Myfanwy’s head began to nod up and down slowly, as though she was listening to a complicated instruction. Over the weeks they’d travelled together, Tom had become familiar with her trances but, for Brenton, it was a terrifying sight. In his understanding, it could be either a sign of madness – or of the devil’s presence. Indeed, had it lasted much longer, he would surely have fled into the arms of his pursuers rather than risk the perils she might call up. But then, as suddenly as the trance had appeared, it vanished and her focus returned.
“He will die,” she said flatly.
Appalled, Brenton appealed wordlessly to Tom who, in turn, reached out for a handful of Brenton’s sleeve.
“You must tell me – everything. Do you understand? The truth! I know two knights claim to have met a group calling themselves the Plant Owain – the Children of Owain – in the forest. They say the girls were stolen by them. But you brought the girls back! Did you also meet these men?”
“The knights!” murmured Brenton. “They’re alive?”
“Alive? Of course they’re alive! And cocky as crows on a pile of guts! I guided them back to Clun myself, though I’d’ve as soon left them in the forest to rot! What matters is, do they lie?”
Brenton’s grasp on the story he and the girls had prepared faltered, writhed briefly in his mind and fell away, like a poorly hooked eel. He shook his head. “They told the truth. Not about Annie and Madeleine. They never came near Annie and Madeleine. But about the old men . . . the Plant Owain. That part was true!”
And the whole story tumbled out of him – the deep forest, the wolves, the endless walk with Anwen on his back, the abandoned monastery, the band of ancient men.
Were names spoken, Tom wanted to know. Yes, they were. Was Owain Glyndwr amongst them? Brenton placed his great hands over his face and dug fingertips into his eyes. He looked back to Myfanwy, her face now as impassive as stone in the dim candlelight.
“Is he ‘the old man’? The one who’ll die?” He thought of the peaceful valley with its ancient graves and meandering stream; and he pictured a coterie of Roland’s knights riding through it with drawn swords. “Where will he die?”
She shrugged, shook her head. “He has choices. It has not been decided.”
“But will it be soon?”
Her gaze was cold, unwavering. “Soon. Soon enough. And late enough.”
Tom’s patience with this cryptic dialogue ran out quickly. He reclaimed Brenton’s attention by wrenching the man’s sleeve. “You must take me to him. Now! Tonight!”
Before Brenton could answer, Myfanwy spoke to Tom. “No!” She said the single word much too loudly for their secret meeting. Both men turned to look at her. “He will wait,” she snapped. “Your journey will wait . . . until morning.” She nodded at Brenton. “This one must sleep . . . must gather strength.” She held out a hand toward Brenton’s wound – touched him with a fingertip. He recoiled slightly and she said, “It pains you. I think you are newly hurt, inside.” With exaggerated care, she turned and opened his massive right hand. She gazed through the darkness at his palm before laying her own her own hand there, knuckles down, like a small mummified bird.
“You are Brenton LeGros,” she crooned softly. “There are great battles in your life! Not all are behind you.”
“No,” Brenton started to say. He was finished with fighting. But Myfanwy stopped him with a gesture. “There are always choices,” she said. “The battle will be there, to be fought or abandoned. You will decide.”
She looked back to Tom. “He will take you tomorrow. Tonight, I will make a potion. Sleep and strength for this one. Perhaps an hour’s ease for the one you seek.”
No objection Tom could make would move her. It was resolved that Brenton would fold his large frame onto the floor of the cart and sleep there. Myfanwy would sleep, as she nearly always did, on fleeces on the ground beneath the cart. And Tom would return to his bed in the castle’s stables.
“Come in the morning,” she instructed, “before the trumpet sounds.”
The time would be right then, she promised, for events to proceed. And she turned her attention to her bags of dried herbs, resolving in her mind what was needed.
Chapter 26 – Roland Prepared
Sir Roland, high in the castle’s keep, with Samuel Rowe at this side, questioned Madeleine and Anwen about their disappearance. Madeleine, her heart in her throat, tried delicately to alter his version of events until, finally, he erupted in rage. Didn’t they know they could be in the dungeon now, instead of this fine, airy room? Didn’t they think he could tell when he was being dallied with, lied to and played the fool? Couldn’t they imagine all the means available to him for loosening tongues?
Exhaustion had taken its toll. Fear, for herself and for Annie, and confusion about the whole Glyndwr story did the rest. Madeleine began to talk. Sir Roland and Samuel Rowe devoured it with all the greedy glee of dogs tearing into a sheep’s carcass. The key bit of information they sought, however – the whereabouts of the infamous Owain Glyndwr – was not to be had. No matter how they stormed and raged, neither girl revealed any hint of that knowledge. Finally the men had relented. Only Brenton LeGros, it seemed, knew the way.
LeGros, of course, had slipped through their net. But Roland and Samuel Rowe were far from beaten. They now understood for a certainty that Glyndwr lived. Beyond all expectation, he had somehow survived.
“Blast and damn!” Roland had stormed to Samuel Rowe. “He’s there! So near! How
do I find him?”
And Rowe, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, had said, “Perhaps, it won’t be necessary to find him, Your Lordship. Perhaps we can tempt him to come to us!”
They left Anwen and Madeleine under token guard in the draughty room at the top of the keep and sent Susan along; ostensibly with food and water, but actually just to witness their plight. They then deliberately launched Susan on a variety of other errands through the castle, knowing she’d whisper an elaborate version of the news to anyone who’d listen. And from there, Samuel promised, it would be raced into the countryside – perhaps, even to Glyndwr himself – with all the haste of a cat trying to shake a flaming brand from its tail.
And in the most cunning and elaborate part of Rowe’s plan, Roland made a doleful announcement in the Great Hall. He regretted to inform the castle’s inhabitants; sad news had come to him. The Welsh – they of the long, bloody and so recently suppressed rebellion – were on the move again. It was particularly concerning, he said, that the safety of their most exalted guest, the Lady Joan de Beaufort, could be in jeopardy.
As a result, he had diverted a delegation – Father Reginald and his two companions – to Shrewsbury. There they would alert the sheriff and, all being well, they would bring that worthy official, Sir Robert Corbet, back with them to collect the two spies already held in the castle. Doubtless, he would then haul them in chains back to Shrewsbury where they could be questioned with more rigour than Roland himself was willing to apply (said prisoners, he noted compassionately, being little more than children). But if, as seemed likely, the children were found to be withholding valuable information . . . well! That information would have to be wrung from them.
And lastly, Samuel Rowe whispered, with a not-altogether patriotic gleam in his eye, “Might I suggest, M’Lord, if rebellion is at hand . . . might we require the villagers to bring their valuables into the castle – for safe-keeping?”
* * * *
The word did indeed spread outward from the castle, whipped along by Susan and all the serving classes, out into the short, narrow street of Clun. Sir Roland, standing on the curtain wall above the gates in the early darkness, saw women waddling through the shadows below his vantagepoint. He heard the echo of voices and the barking of dogs, clear and distant, from the village below. He saw pinpoints of light moving amongst the houses – soldiers with torches, looking for Brenton LeGros. He looked to the blacker than black barricade of forest that surrounded them, and imagined an old enemy there, waiting and planning. As he himself was planning.
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