“They’ve took Lady Margaret!” she wailed on seeing him. “Said they’d cut my throat! Ohhh, ohhh! I been nearly kilt, Mr Rowe!” She barely managed to squeak the last words out before crumpling into a sodden mass of tears and hiccups.
“What’re ye saying? Who took her? When? How?”
Rowe’s astonishment stuttered out of him in a series of questions, the answers to which he didn’t need to wait for. He didn’t need to wait because his mind had already leapt across a canyon of improbability and found itself face to face with a very nasty looking conclusion.
He raced away to the chamber in which Elizabeth Douglas and her friends had been accommodated. There was, of course, no one there. Could it be? Were they making a dash for it? With Lady Margaret as hostage! An ember of glee floated up in his mind. He had little liking for the Lenthall’s. If Lady Margaret was gone, well – it might be amusing to see what response the ineffective old turd could come up with.
On the other hand (the ember winked out) there was a royal guest in the castle! If her safety was compromised – if Lady Joan de Beaufort was harmed during her stay – King Henry might wreak a terrible vengeance on them all! He dashed away to Lady Joan’s chamber where he forced himself to knock before thrusting open the door. Gone!
And the state of disarray suggested a hurried departure! By force or by choice? He had no way of knowing. When was the last time he’d seen Sir Perceval? And what fool, anyhow, had decided to allow a Frenchman to travel with . . . ! (Gasp!) Perhaps Sir Roland had been right! Perhaps the Frenchman was in league with the Scots! Perhaps Lady Margaret and Lady Joan were both hostages, even now being hauled away to Scotland! Could the hospitality of Clun Castle truly have been repaid with such treacherous . . . treachery? How was a man to deal with such wicked people! And if all that was true, what did that say about the fire in the bailey? A diversion! No doubt about it! Which meant . . . potentially . . . it was only the beginning!
Rowe was well launched on his journey back to the gatehouse when a terrible crash and ruckus bounced, like a loose cannonball, down the stairs from the floor above, causing him to veer off up that flight. Another inexplicable mystery! The door behind which the castle’s official prisoners should be cowering, was open! And Sir Cyril Halftree, in an uncontainable rage, was bashing a wooden bucket against the stone wall! The man’s face was a bloodied mess, he smelled like a toilet midden and he was clearly in a state verging on hysteria. Each crash of the bucket was accompanied by an inhuman roar.
“Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!” he howled, striking again and again until, at last, the bucket splintered in his hand. Only then did he throw the remnants to the floor and, panting with exhaustion, place his hands gingerly over the huge lump on his head.
“Have you killed her?” Rowe asked, moving forward to look into the room, expecting to see the battered form of the blond one.
Cyril squinted at him groggily. He brought one hand down and poked a finger in his mouth, prodding the space his tooth had so recently occupied. An eerie calm came over him. “Not yet,” he said. “But I will.”
There was nothing in this situation to diminish Rowe’s sense of panic and yet, somehow, Cyril’s calm spilled across to him. He stared thoughtfully into the empty room. He studied the hall, with its shattered bucket, scattered weapons and spillage of urine. He couldn’t imagine what stupendous force had been at work in this place. He couldn’t imagine it, in part, because connections flickering in the back of his mind had begun to distract him.
First there was that girl – the village girl – one of the litter fathered by Gwilym, the reeve! Clearly, when he’d encountered her near the kitchen (Why hadn’t he finished her then?) she was newly escaped from the keep – released by persons unknown. And the same unknown persons must then have gone on to steal away Lady Margaret! (God alone . . . well, perhaps God and those scheming Scots – and the Frenchie . . . knew why!) Which meant Sir Roland’s suspicions about the children were proven correct! And their fates were sealed! Doubtless, the reeve and his whole family would suffer the rack for the treachery of those girls! And the rest of the village! They too would have to be scourged and punished – dealt with!
The second thing distracting him was the demand he’d heard, only minutes ago, from the villagers – from Gwilym himself. “Give us our girls,” the man had said to Sir Roland. Question: Why would he make that demand if the girls were already freed? Answer: Gwilym didn’t know they’d been freed! Conclusion: (The only possible one!) The girls – and whoever helped them escape – were still in the castle!
A smile oozed its way across Rowe’s lips. He reached out to put a hand on Sir Cyril’s shoulder, though the smell of the man turned the touch into a mere gesture. He explained the newly clarified situation and shivered with delight at the malevolence that shimmered across Cyril’s face.
“So, Sir Knight! If I’m right – and I’m sure I am – then you ought not to be standing here! The night is growing old! And death is always so much more . . . surprising . . . when dealt from the darkness. Don’t you think?”
Shortly thereafter, they descended together from the keep, Rowe leading the way.
“The great gate is closed, Sir Cyril. That leaves only the postern. Check there first. Make certain my guard is still in place. Then start working through the buildings in the bailey. Work your way back to the castle.”
“Where are you going?” Cyril wanted to know. “This’d be quicker with more of us looking.”
“Don’t you worry, my friend. There are soldiers in this castle who are loyal to me. I’m going to fetch them and we’re going to turn this place inside out! I promise you, there isn’t a cranny or a crevice in this castle that I don’t know about. Meantime – the postern!”
He waved Cyril off, before calling him suddenly back. “Wait! Listen! There may be hostages. Lady Margaret. Lady Joan de Beaufort. They’re both missing. Lady Joan is not to be harmed. Understand? The other I don’t mind, but Joan, above all, is not to be harmed! If you find her, you must tell her that Samuel Rowe – Steward of Clun Castle in the absence of Thomas FitzAlan, twelfth Earl of Arundel – assures her of her safety. Got that?”
“And if I do that . . .?” Cyril queried defiantly.
“If you do that, Sir Knight, you will share in the good fortune the king will doubtless send in this direction – as thanks for his niece’s rescue.”
“And . . . ?”
“And . . . those village girls will be yours – to do with as you please.”
Cyril grunted a satisfied grunt and went to leave. A movement behind Rowe caught his attention, however, and he gestured with his chin. “The walls have ears, Milord.”
Rowe spun around to see Eustace, the archer, standing in the shadows.
“What are you doing there, man? Step into the light! Are you listening in? Are you a spy, by God? Because if you are, I’ll have . . .”
“I’m sent by Sir Roland, Mister Rowe.”
“ ‘Milord’, damn you. Address me as ‘Milord’!”
“Sorry . . . Milord! Sir Roland sent me to look for ye. He bids me tell ye he’s waitin’. To hear of Lady Margaret’s safety. And to receive the lady Elizabeth Douglas in the gate ‘ouse. Is all as it should be, he wants to know . . . Milord.”
Eustace was carrying his longbow, already strung and ready for action, though he and Rhodri had earlier agreed that none of their arrows would be harming people of Clun village. If Sir Roland’s forces came under attack from an army led by Owain Glyndwr, they were ready to spill blood. But not that of their own neighbours.
“As it should be?” Rowe was disgusted that his attention must be diverted to that frivolous and pompous man. “As if anything’s been ‘as it should be’ since his arrival. Tell him . . . Tell him . . . Ah never mind! I’ll tell him myself!” He gave Cyril a straight and knowing look. “Go to your work, Sir Knight. I’ll be with you very soon.”
* * * *
Give him his due; Cyril was a man of prodigious strength a
nd endurance. Despite an afternoon of the squits, a short but damaging battle and a braining with a weighty wooden bucket, he gave no thought to rest. He made his way directly to the postern gate, which he found closed. Fortunately, he did not lean on it. Had he done so, he’d have found that it was not latched. Maude, being mindful of how dark the recess was when the gate was closed and how bright with reflected moonlight when opened, had decided the darkness would be more easily overlooked. She’d pushed it to – just far enough so she could still get a grip with her finger tips and gain re-entry.
Cyril called sharply for the guard who, he knew, could well be sleeping somewhere in the near vicinity, or perhaps relieving himself somewhere along the wall. There was, of course, no answer and Cyril sniffed the air, like a hound briefly off the scent. The smell of charred and soaked hay was still sour in the air. He strode to the haystack, deep within which lay two of the people he was hell-bent on killing. His sword was in his hand and he swiped at the hay in disgust. It made him think of his warhorse and he wondered if damage had been done in the stable. He decided he would check there first. In the distance he could hear the sound of voices – the rising tone of Sir Roland, experiencing a healthy state of alarm.
* * * *
‘A healthy state of alarm’ really hardly describes Roland’s reaction to Samuel Rowe’s story. He was gob-smacked. Suddenly powerless, like a fly in a spider’s web. Enraged and humiliated.
“Gone? My wife’s gone? Where?”
Rowe nodded curtly. “Into the hands of Owain Glyndwr, according to her chambermaid.”
“My God! Was she . . .? Has she been . . .?”
“The chambermaid didn’t say so, Milord. Apparently she walked out. Though her head was wrapped in a cloak.”
“Head wrapped in a cloak!” Roland repeated. “In the hands of Owain Glyndwr! She said that? In the hands of Owain Glyndwr?”
Rowe nodded again and, just for the misery of it, added, “He threatened to cut the girl’s throat.”
“Cut her throat!” Sir Roland repeated again. “Lord Jesus!” Behind his ribs, inside his steel jacket, far below the proud and boastful crest of his family, Sir Roland’s heart lurched. A lesser man might have suspected that something in there was very near to breaking. He looked down at the villagers, some of whom were now sitting on the ground while others flapped their arms against the deepening cold. He looked back at Rowe.
“And the Scots? Elizabeth Douglas? Also gone? You’re sure?”
“As gone as the summer, Milord. As gone as the leaves off a dead tree.” He was somewhat enjoying himself. “Seems you were right, Milord! They must have been in league with the scoundrel, Glyndwr!”
“But . . . but . . . how? How would they get out?”
Rowe shrugged. “Same way they got in, I suppose.” And suddenly, the chirpy little cricket of Rowe’s smugness was stomped out of existence. It hadn’t actually registered on him before. Someone had gotten in! Into his castle! Owain Glyndwr had gotten into his castle, without anyone knowing! Even with the Scots helping from the inside . . . how was it possible? As he stood there, beneath the torchlight, his mind spun off on a frantic tour through the bailey and around the walls. What had he forgotten to do? He thought of Thomas FitzAlan – how angry, how frustrated . . . how disappointed, Thomas would be in him! And he, like Sir Roland, felt something twist inside him. Had Thomas been in front of him, Rowe knew, he would have slashed a mailed fist through the air and demanded . . .
“Show me my wife, you scoundrels! Show me this villainous rogue, this Glyndwr, who makes war on women! Does the coward not dare to show his face? Eh? Answer me, damn you!”
The words brought Rowe slamming back into the present moment, largely because the voice was not that of Thomas FitzAlan. It was that of Sir Roland Lenthall, bellowing down at the villagers. Rowe looked down into the gloom. He picked out Gwilym, the big reeve, who stepped forward and began to speak. “Milord . . .”
“Not you, Reeve!” Sir Roland thundered. “I’m told Glyndwr has my wife! I’ll speak with him! Now! And if anything’s happened to her, by God, I’ll . . .!” He stammered to a stop and Gwilym, silenced, waved Silent Richard forward.
“I don’ know what your man has achieved in there, Owain,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “But I want me girls released. Get it done. This game goes on too long.”
Richard also, of course, had no real understanding of what had happened. But he had to assume that Jeremy had somehow succeeded in reaching Lady Margaret. Otherwise, Sir Roland would be in the Great Hall, drinking ale and planning a morning massacre. He stepped forward.
“Ahh. Ah-hem.” He raised a hand in a little wave.
“Are you him?” Roland shouted, peering at the figure now illuminated in the moonlight. “Are you Glyndwr?”
“Ahhh! To be sure,” Richard stammered. “At your service, Milord. Now if you’ll just fetch those little girls to the . . .”
“Where’s my wife, you Welsh rascal? What’ve you done with her? How did you get into my castle? Was it those treacherous Scots? By God, if I could lay my hands on them this minute! Are they there with you? Let them show themselves! I should have shipped them off to London the moment I saw through their pathetic disguise! They’d be locked in the Tower, by now! And my men would be hunting you down like the dog you are!”
Richard was entirely mystified by certain of those references but he was determined to carry on as he thought Owain himself would do.
“I’ve no idea what yer on about wi’ Scots an’ all, Sir Roland. As for how I got in, well . . . you know the stories! Owain Glyndwr’s got the magic! He goes where he pleases. And if you’ll not keep a civil tongue in yer ‘ead, he’ll disappear from in front of you, like the light from a blown candle. Now give these people back their children. Do it now. An’ I think I can guarantee ye that your own little lady’ll be walkin’ back into your arms in a trice. You have Owain Glyndwr’s word for that.”
In all the great heap of things that had been said and done to Sir Roland through his life, there was no recollection of ever having been told to keep a civil tongue in his head. He didn’t like it. Powerlessness. He didn’t like that, either. He stepped a step to the rear and pounded a fist against the stonework. He looked around at the group of burly soldiers who stood looking back at him. He glanced down into the ramshackle bailey and up at the stone keep. He thought of the fine castle at Hampton Court, over in Herefordshire, where he and Margaret would now be had they not been summoned to receive guests on this God-forsaken frontier.
“An’ one other thing,” a voice called from down below. This time the voice was Gwilym’s. “Are ye still there, Sir Roland?”
Roland stepped forward, and looked down. His bloodless gaze, had it not been hidden by darkness, might well have made Gwilym think twice about venturing on with his thought.
“There is one other thing, Milord,” Gwilym repeated, selecting his words as carefully as he was able. “You an’ your wife . . . ye’ve a fine castle to live in . . . in Herefordshire. Much finer, I’m sure, than Clun Castle.”
Roland’s eyes narrowed, his lip curled and he spat into the cold, midnight air. “Clun Castle is a ruin – much thanks to the man that stands beside you.”
Silent Richard, who’d been with Owain when Clun Castle had fallen all those years ago, couldn’t stifle a little “Hah!” It slipped through his lips like the chuckle of an old ram remembering its glorious lamb days. Everyone else, soldiers on the wall and villagers on the ground, remained as silent and still as the ancient stones under discussion. Only Samuel Rowe shifted uneasily. The hairs on his neck were prickled up. Sir Roland’s reference to Clun Castle as his own and his berating of it as a ruin had caused them, one and all, to lift off his skin in alarm.
Gwilym glanced reprovingly at Richard before continuing his conversation with Sir Roland.
“Would ye tell that to the Earl o’ March, Milord? Would ye tell Sir Edmund the place is a ruin? Tell ‘im the people o’ Clun are gr
ateful . . . for the protection they been granted by the Marcher Lords, for long and long. Tell ‘im the country is now so well protected that the land is all but ruined and not worth even the dullin’ of a knife. Tell ‘im the long wars between the princes o’ Wales and the princes of England are ended, Milord. Ye know yourself, the Clun-Clee Ridgeway has become an empty track. The danger is so long passed that now our young men, instead o’ bein’ held here for our defence, are called away to France, to fight the King’s wars in that far land. An’ wi’ our old people carried off by the plague . . . we ‘ave trouble enough takin’ a livin’ from this land. Tell ‘im . . . tell ‘im . . . so poor is the country . . . there are abbeys in the deep forest . . . abbeys built by the ancient ones . . . where no priest has set foot for the span of a man’s life, Milord.”
Richard’s head snapped up, a quizzical frown on his face. Gwilym’s glance consisted of a brief, sideways nod of his head. He continued on. Having dared this much, he could do nothing else but speak his heart.
“It is a poor village, Milord. We can find no more to give.” There. He had said and done the unthinkable – a simple man, daring to speak for the commonality – telling the powers that be that things must change.
Sir Roland Lenthall, knight of the realm, loyal soldier and faithful servant of the king, received these words with a sort of dull shock of recognition, like one who, in old age, hears a tune whistled that he has not heard since childhood. He raised a blustering response, but surprised even himself at how little anger there was to drive it.
“You walk a dangerous line, Reeve. But I choose to overlook your impudence. I am going to forgive it. Do you know why? Because I know that a fool can be no more than a fool. But I tell you this. Because maybe you’re the last to learn what knavery’s been afoot in Clun these past days. I have lately taken prisoner, in this very castle, the daughter of Archibald Douglas! Do you hear me? Archibald Douglas, I say! Who even now plots against King Henry and rides his thunder through English towns and villages in the north. Villages just like Clun! His daughter travelled here under a false name. Did you know that? Here! To Clun! Under a false name! Now why would she do that, eh? Reeve? Any of you? Eh?” Ahh, this was better. A good rant was excellent for raising one’s spirits. “No answers? Well let me tell you! She came here . . .to make contact . . .” (he raised and pointed an accusatory finger) “. . . with Owain Glyndwr!”
Children of Clun Page 30
