Children of Clun

by Robert Nicholls

  Richard felt all eyes turn toward him. The story was so unexpected – so entirely unanticipated – that it returned him instantly to that silent bafflement that he was renowned for. He shrugged his shoulders sheepishly.

  “So,” Sir Roland finished with grand sarcasm, “if it seems to you, Reeve, and to your friends in the village, that there is peace in the Marches, that might well be because there are matters that are beyond you! Eh? Did you think of that? No! Of course you didn’t! So take my advice and stick to what you know best – crutching sheep and shovelling shite. And one more thing – something you do still have to give! I want those Scots handed over to me! Now! And GET ME BACK MY WIFE!”

  A booming silence extended itself through the night. In the now bright light of the moon, Richard sensed the movement of people. The open space around himself and Gwilym was growing.

  Chapter 37 – Myfanwy

  The exchange between Gwilym and Sir Roland had been heard with great interest by two of the three people who waited, many yards beyond the circle of villagers, at Myfanwy’s cart. Sir Perceval de Coucy, his senses still woozy and damaged from Jack’s blow, had wanted to go out amongst the villagers. He had some private impulse to get closer to the shadowy man who’d been identified as Owain Glyndwr. Jack, hearing the familiar voice of Silent Richard, had also wanted to get to his friend’s side. He wanted to be there to lend his little support and he wanted to tell what he’d seen – the body of Roger Ringworm, slung over a horse and taken within the castle.

  Both wanted to go, both rose to go, but Myfanwy, through some undeniable insistence, held them back. “There is other work for you!” she hissed. “You will wait!” And then, strangely, she stood with her back to the heated conversation at the gate. She stood looking past the castle’s wall, down toward the dark river.

  It was during Sir Roland’s last damning excoriation that Myfanwy suddenly turned back and tapped their shoulders. “Now,” she smiled broadly, her teeth gleaming like faerie sparkles in a cup of dark liquid. “Look where they come!”

  She pointed into the darkness where she’d been looking. Two figures, one hulking, one frail, braced in support of one another, staggered in the darkness. “Bring them to me!” she whispered to Perceval and Jack. “Quickly! While attention is on the gatehouse!”

  The smaller of the two figures was, of course, Maude. Her escape through the castle’s postern gate had put her feet on the narrow path above the river. And the path had taken her past the rocky outcrop to which Sir Angus of Atholl clung. His struggle with the gatekeeper had taken them both into the river. The gatekeeper had sunk and disappeared. But Angus, in his light armour, while swallowing more than a fair share of the river, had used every skerrick of his considerable strength to reach an anchor point. Maude’s little muscles, which she’d flexed without hesitation, had been just strong enough to help him overcome the drag of the current.

  Now they sat behind Myfanwy’s cart, shivering in the night air. Perceval plied Angus with questions about his wife, about Lady Joan and about the Scottish girls. Had the escape plan worked? Yes, in part. Were the girls somewhere out in the darkness? Some are, yes. Who’s still in the castle? I didn’t see Lady Joan escape – or your wife. Are they safe? I can’t say. Things are mad in there.

  At the same time, Maude stammered out her breathless tale to Jack’s eager nodding – the escape from Sir Cyril, the flight through the castle with the wounded Brenton, the loss of Madeleine, the fire and the burrowing into the haystack. And the postern gate.

  Both Perceval and Jack looked to Myfanwy, as though requesting release – affirming their joint need for action. In turn, Myfanwy, held out an arm, indicating they should listen to the words that were now echoing across the common.

  “ She came here,” Sir Roland was thundering, “to make contact . . . with Owain Glyndwr!”

  They all looked to Sir Angus who gave an exhausted shake of his head: no such thing, he seemed to be saying. Perceval and Jack then looked to Myfanwy again for an indication of what now to do. It had become clear to both that their actions would best be guided by whatever arcane knowledge lay in her mind.

  “Men weigh their consciences,” she whispered. “We hang in the balance. Listen. Be ready.” She looked to Maude. “Ye’ve done well, Maude. I’m glad, at last, that we meet.”

  Maude, having recognised at last the little cart she’d dreamed into existence over a week ago, gazed at Myfanwy in wonder. “You!” she said. “I know your voice!”

  Myfanwy smiled through the darkness. “That ye do, my girl! An’ we’ve still lots to talk about. But not tonight. You left the gate unlatched?”

  Maude stared wordlessly up at the older woman. Perhaps, she was thinking, I’ll wake up in moment and all this will disappear! Myfanwy nodded and said to Perceval and Jack, “It’ll be open. That gate is yer way. Understand?”

  The echo of a shout was dying away as they turned their attention back to the confrontation at the castle’s main gate. “ . . . MY WIFE! . . . ‘IFE! . . . ‘IFE!” it was repeating. An eerie quiet followed. It was as though the world had begun to slow in its revolution. Then the voice of Silent Richard was heard, droll and conversational, like a man telling a tale in a public house.

  “Now ‘ere’s the thing, Sir Roland,” he began. “I don’ know anythin’ about Archibald Douglas. Nor his daughter, neither, for that matter. And I’ve not heard mention of ‘em in this village, neither. So I’m thinkin’ you’ve yoked your pony to the wrong end of a cart wi’ that one. But I’ll tell ye what I know! I know this man, here – this reeve – is not the fool you take him for. I was in London in ’81 – prob’ly before you were born. I saw Wat Tyler an’ Jack Straw raise up an army o’ folk jus’ like these ones standin’ here. I heard that priest – that John Ball. ‘Lords be no greater masters than we be.’ That’s what he told those folk. Some fine lords were brought awful low for not understandin’ what he meant.”

  “And what did he mean, do you think?” Roland sneered. “What did any of it mean? Wat Tyler died in the mud, with a dagger in his throat. And where were John Ball’s fancy words when his head was on a spike on London Bridge? Eh? Don’t presume to teach me English history, Glyndwr!”

  “Hah!” Richard laughed softly. “I never thought to teach you anythin’, Milord. Only to remind you. These’re farm folk here. Makin’ an ‘umble request of a great English lord. Askin’ for somethin’ you can give at no cost to yerself. If nothin’ else, p’raps you could take a lesson from Glyndwr’s history here in the Marches. The world is changin’. These folk’re changin’. Don’t make ‘em change into somethin’ you’ll regret.”

  Roland suddenly realised the absurdity of what he was doing. He was negotiating! With an avowed enemy! For him, the world actually did stop. He looked up at the night sky, from which the clouds had vanished. The moon looked back at him with its one expectant eye. He knew the story of the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381.

  It had happened the year before his birth, but the reverberations were still being felt and discussed in great halls throughout the country. Armies of ragged peasants had converged on London. They’d beheaded the Archbishop of Canterbury, the lord treasurer and who knew how many government ministers and judges and officials. They’d seized lands and invaded great houses. War, they’d said, and plague and suffering – there’d been too much. They could take no more. For a brief while, they’d been uncontrollable. Was that right? Was he remembering rightly? Or was this some version of the reeve’s words, echoing in his mind?

  “I know one other thing, Milord,” Richard called softly. Roland looked down on the up-turned face. The moonlight clearly showed the grey double-pointed beard Glyndwr had worn for years. “I know,” said Richard, “that your wife is dear to ye. Have her back. Take ‘er ‘ome to ‘ampton Court. Leave these people an’ their families in peace.”

  Roland heard himself sigh deeply. He rubbed at the stubble on his face. “And what,” he asked, “of you, Glyndwr? If I were to go . . . i
f I were to tell the earl that Clun Castle is beyond repair and no longer needed anyhow, because . . . because the times are ‘changed’, as you say . . . because peace has returned to the Marches – what of you? Do I leave you . . . with these renegade Scots, to reclaim this little patch of land for yourself? For Wales?”

  “Not a bit of it, Milord! Not a bit of it! I believe these folk would strike a bargain wi’ ye, not to be harbourin’ any Scots. An’ as for me, I have, this very day, surrendered meself to the reeve, here. To dispose of as he sees fit. An’ if he’s half as clever a man as I think ‘e is, an’ ‘alf as interested in doin’ right by his folk, I think ‘e’ll ‘and meself over to yourself. To be yer prisoner. An’ if ‘e chooses that road, why then, I’ll give me personal promise – a soldier’s word – to go peacefully . . . wherever you decide.”

  There were gasps all around. Sir Roland had, in fact, in the back of his mind, been pondering the idea of having one of the bowmen put an arrow in the old thunderbolt – pin him to the ground before he could affect one of his famous vanishing acts. He might have done it, too, had it not been for the predicament – whatever predicament it was – that Lady Margaret had gotten herself into. But now! He could hardly imagine the glory that would be associated with his name. All England would pay him homage! Bards would sing of him, story-tellers would immortalise him! Roland Lenthall – Roland the Cunning – Roland of the Marches! The man who, from the ruins of Clun Castle, faced down and captured the mighty Owain Glyndwr!

  He announced loudly, “Hear this! If Lady Margaret is returned to me – unharmed and unscathed; if Owain Glyndwr surrenders himself to my soldiers, this very night, before the moon is set; if the village submits peacefully to a search by my soldiers – who, I warn you, will execute anyone caught harbouring the Scottish spies; if the whereabouts of Lady Joan de Beaufort is revealed to me, so that I may lead my soldiers to her rescue. . . . if all these conditions are met . . .” , he paused lengthily. “If all these conditions are met, then will I truly believe the time has come for Clun Castle to . . . finish its service. And I will accept your offer. I will carry the message myself to the Earl of March – send word even to the king! Along with my esteemed prisoner!” And he added softly, so only the men on the wall could hear, “And ye can turn the place into a haymow for all I care.”

  * * * *

  The world started to turn once more. In the space beneath Myfanwy’s cart, Jack, dismayed beyond belief by Richard’s submission (added, as it was, to his fears for Roger) subsided in tears. Maude gaped at him, at Myfanwy, at Sir Perceval. She sensed that a great change was about to unfold in Clun, though whether it would be a boon or a curse for herself, her sisters, her family – her entire village – she could not discern.

  “Enough!” Sir Perceval snorted, his patience having deserted him entirely. “I must go! My wife . . . !” He began crawling out.

  Myfanwy grasped his shoulders. “Listen to me! We do not speak of a wife, here! Or of a village or a castle! A queen is in the making, Sir Knight! Your wife plays her part! And I promise you, you will play yours! Let it unfold, I say!” Her head dropped, then, in concentration and she placed the heels of her hands against her eyes, her fingers encasing her temples.

  * * * *

  On the curtain wall, in the gatehouse and amongst the villagers on the common, a sense of wonder had taken hold. Not only had the daylong stand-off come to a bloodless end. So too had the career of England’s most famous and mysterious fugitive! And so too, it seemed, had the usefulness of their own little built-for-the-ages castle!

  Samuel Rowe, alone, if anyone had cared to notice, was struggling to breathe. Panicked thoughts flashed through his mind, like swallows glimpsed through a narrow window. Abandon Clun Castle? Impossible! Unheard of! What were they thinking? Of course there was not peace in the Marches! Glyndwr was . . . ! It was not Glyndwr who was the danger! It was the people! All the people! How could he show them? How could he convince them? His mind raced. It raced like a stag with the sound of a bowstring thrumming in its ears. It raced like the last wolf in the great Forest of Clun, looking for a way to safety. It raced to a meeting with the single thought that filled the mind of Sir Cyril Halftree as he pushed open the stable door. Murder.

  * * * *

  The moment that thought formed in Samuel Rowe’s mind, Myfanwy’s hands jumped away from her eyes and Maude slumped to the ground as though struck by a hammer. When Maude looked up, the moon had turned to blood. The night sounds, so gentle to the ears of those around her, had disappeared beneath a crescendo of wail and shriek and moan. The ghosts that all had feared but none had seen swimming beyond the veil of All Hallows Eve, began to materialise before her until the air was dense with shrouds. The last minutes of the Day of the Dead were ticking away.

  Myfanwy reached for Perceval. “Now,” she murmured into his ear. “I had hoped for better, but go now! Take the boy!” He turned instantly to go but she held him a second longer. “Knight!” she hissed. “Remember your promise! Remember your name! And do not underestimate the boy.” She pushed him off and turned, tenderly, to reach for the horrified Maude.

  Perceval, towing Jack by his thin sleeve, set off in a low, crouching run toward the river path from which Maude and Sir Angus had emerged. Neither he nor Jack looked back.

  Chapter 38 – Madeleine, Marie and Lady Joan

  “Rowe! Rowe!” Sir Roland was physically shaking Samuel. “Wake up, man! What’re ye, drunk? Can ye not hear me?”

  Samuel Rowe emerged from his trance like a man being woken from a sleep walk – bewildered and confused. “What?” he stammered. “What?”

  “I said they’re still here! I just figured it out! The man asking for those blasted girls! Means they’re still here, in the castle! D’ye see? If they’d got out, they’d be with him! So find ‘em, Rowe! Find ‘em and bring ‘em to me!” Rowe’s look was so vacant that Sir Roland grasped him by the jaw, pinching him painfully. “They’re my guarantee, Rowe! Without ‘em, I may not get Glyndwr! Nor my wife neither! But with ‘em . . . there’ll be no backing out, see? Hostages! So wake yourself up, man, an’ do as I tell ye!” He pushed the steward away violently. “Find ‘em!”

  Samuel Rowe turned and stumbled toward the stairs to the bailey. You idiot, he wanted to shout. Of course they’re still here! Them and probably your stupid wife and Lady Joan and her damned, back stabbing Frenchie friends! And the Scots! All on the loose somewhere in the castle! Somewhere in ‘my’ castle!

  “Rowe, ye fool, what’re ye doing?” Sir Roland shouted after him. “Take some o’ these men with ye! I want the place taken apart, stone by stone, if need be!”

  Samuel stopped and imposed a calm demeanour on himself. There were men there who he considered ‘his’ men, but none he’d like to trust with the bloody work he now had in mind.

  “Milord, I have men below. Best to keep these here, on guard. In case of treachery – from outside. I promise you . . . I know the places to look. It’ll be done and finished within the hour.” He hurried off, leaving Sir Roland to make blustering noises amongst the remaining soldiers.

  Once away, Rowe was content to take Cyril’s obedience for granted. By now, he’d’ve finished checking the postern gate on the western side and started working his way through the outbuildings. If Rowe began on the eastern side, they would soon meet somewhere in the middle.

  * * * *

  Lady Joan, Marie and Madeleine had endured a long wait. Crouched in an end stall, they’d waited until the panicked sounds of men and horses abated. They’d waited until the smell of smoke cleared and was replaced by the smell of wet hay. They’d waited until the only outside sound was that of a single, distant voice, angry and impatient, like the far-off call of a crow. Only then had Marie crept to the door to peep out and listen. When she returned, it was to report that the voice belonged to Sir Roland. And from the sound of it, he was in a high temper.

  “He was shouting for someone to give him back his wife! Who could he be shouting to?
And what can have happened to Lady Margaret?”

  “Sweet Mother of God! You don’t think that Sir Angus has done something desperate?”

  They stared at one another in disbelief. The tumultuous night was becoming increasingly bewildering. Madeleine, on the other hand, having already been twice threatened with death (and twice saved) in the one night, and remembering that it was All Souls Eve, was less astonished. Desperate events, it seemed, were becoming all too familiar in her life.

  Her and Anwen’s escape from the keep – Jenny Talbot and the strange little man who’d almost been killed in the effort to free them! Where had they gone after the battle with Sir Cyril? Certainly not toward the bailey with herself and Annie and Maude and Brenton! She briefly considered speaking of them to Marie and Joan – but only briefly. The words that came instead into her mind were her father’s: “If ye’re not sure of what ye’re talkin’ about, best to keep your mouth shut.”

  The question of gratitude, however – where and to whom it was owed and how it would be repayed – was clearer. She owed a life to Marie de Coucy. And a way to start repaying that debt was to take a turn listening and watching at the stable door. With their permission, she crept away, placing her feet with exaggerated care, thankful for the oil lanterns left burning when the horses were saddled.

  Framed in that flickering light, the crack of the opening was a black slit beyond which, when she put her eye to it, the outside darkness resolved itself into a patchy grey. All was quiet. All was still. Unless! There? Her heart fell. For there, hulking from the shadows of the castle’s rear wall, like a demon of stone, trod the all too familiar and terrifying figure of Sir Cyril Halftree.

  At first, she refused to believe the evidence of her eyes. Surely the blow Annie had given him with the bucket must have killed him! Was he a ghost then? She blinked and rubbed her eyes and looked again. He was still there, sniffing like a hound and glistening with steel. She knew she should duck away but she could not. It was as though a doom had settled on her; a frost-bitten mouse, frozen in the inescapable shadow of a hawk.