Children of Clun

by Robert Nicholls

  Myfanwy shook her head in uncertainty. “Always, they come for their own,” she said. “They seem to know . . . the times, the places. Pr’aps they’ve made their claim. Pr’aps it’s enough. We’ll see. Meantime . . . ,” she pushed Maude away, “. . . we work for the living! Go! Through the gate! Find the boy!”

  * * * *

  Samuel Rowe, having barely escaped the horns of the old milk cow, found himself face down the muck of the stable, next to the body of Sir Cyril Halftree. He twisted his head to look up and saw the flames devouring a portion of the nearest wall, the smoke churning down from the ceiling. It was moving so fast – too fast! He looked further and saw that the French girl was gone. Joan de Beaufort, however, remained, staring like a statue into empty space. He scrambled to his feet. What should he do? Perhaps it was the smoke. Perhaps it was his age. Perhaps it was a recollection of the suicidal words he’d spoken to Lady Joan. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t seem to get his mind around what he was supposed to do. Every plan or dream that he had ever had – all save one – had abandoned him. The remaining one was the castle and the pact it represented between himself and the long absent Thomas FitzAlan. All he had – all he was – was his promise.

  He picked up a woollen horse blanket and began, mechanically, to beat at the flames. His eyes burned, smoke caught at his throat and he sobbed with futility. He needed help. Why was there never any help?

  Behind him, Lady Joan, at the end of her reverie, covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve and watched with an unfamiliar intensity. Rowe, she reminded herself, was steward of this castle – not the owner. And he was a man with a murderous heart. She knew those things. And yet . . . here he was, battling on his own, to save a barn! An empty barn! In an all-but-forgotten fortress on the remote Welsh border of Shropshire! Why? Why wasn’t he making his escape? Surely that’s what men of his ilk should be expected to do! There were so many things she’d missed – so much she’d failed to understand – about the qualities of people.

  She crouched down, looking for clearer air, and spied the bucket she’d refused to take from Marie. She forced herself to pick it up. Deliberately, she looked around for the nearest water trough, went to it, dipped the bucket in and carried it back to Rowe. Rowe glanced at her only briefly, with a wildly piteous look of gratitude.

  “There!” he shouted. “Empty it there!” And she did.

  She was Lady Joan de Beaufort, sixteen years old, sister of the Earl of Somerset, niece to King Henry the fifth of England, grand daughter of John of Gaunt. And though she couldn’t know it, she was a woman who would one day be a queen in her own right. On this demon-haunted night (the first, but not the last she would see in her life) she began to become that queen. She did it by bucketing water from a trough onto a fire in a stable in Clun Castle. She did it by working, shoulder to shoulder with a man condemned by a worthless and futile obsession. She did it, not because she cared but because, suddenly, she needed to understand – needed to know – what things of worth lay within herself. And within other people. Beyond the ruthlessness and calculation of men like Rowe, beyond the self-absorption and vanity of people like herself – beyond the daily callousness and indifference of people everywhere – was there a place for redemption? Did change really lie within her reach? The ghosts that trolled the night of All Souls might have told her. But their business lay elsewhere.

  It seemed an age that the two struggled, Rowe pounding the flames and Joan running with water. But even together, they were not enough. They were too late. The fire ignored them, towered over them, lept like a hound up into the roof. At last he grabbed her arm and shouted over the roar, “It’s no use! Get out!” He pushed her toward the door, though the smoke there was thick and almost impenetrable. She went only a step. They were both coughing, their eyes streaming. He pushed her a second time. “Go!”

  She staggered into the poisonous fug and, by sheerest luck, into the searching arms of Sir Perceval. It was Perceval’s third and last foray into the smoke. So thick was it that he was unable to see the face of the person he’d found. He hoped it was Joan but all he could do was grab a handful of tunic and wrench whoever it was in the direction of the door. The one thing he could tell was that, whoever it was, like himself, was at the brink of collapse. When she fell to her knees, he hung on grimly, dragging her the last yards until they both emerged, heaving and gasping, into the air.

  For long minutes, he crouched on elbows and knees, his forehead to the ground, unable to think of anything but the struggle for the next breath. Gradually, though, Perceval became aware of Marie’s voice and was able to see that it was, indeed, Joan who he’d found. He rolled onto his back, barking smoke from his lungs, knuckling tears of relief from his smoke-singed eyes.

  The paroxysms passed slowly until, finally, he lay quietly. Then it was that a cool, damp kiss was planted on his forehead and he prised his eyes open to see, hovering over him, the wide brown face of Beatrice, the cow. Her eyes, he thought, seemed to express a kind of gratitude. But there was also, it seemed, a hint of reprimand. He had persevered and saved his friend, but Beatrice’s home was, nonetheless, going up in flames.

  Perceval forced himself to a seated position. As seigneur in his own village, he knew the dangers of fires that were uncontrolled and he recognised that this fire, in the bailey of Clun Castle, had the potential to reach a truly frightening size. He looked around and was surprised to see that quite a large crowd of watchers had materialised. Gwilym was there, as were many more of the peasants from the village. Which meant, he realised, that Jack must have succeeded in getting the gate open.

  Marie, he saw, was moving amongst them, trying, with great animation, to harangue them into fetching water. Two or three moved but all their faces remained stony and impassive. They had flooded in eagerly but now, nearly all were content to stand and watch. It was as though this was their replacement All Hallows bonefire – a symbol of celebration. It dawned on Perceval slowly that the few who were moving were not looking for buckets. They were looking for fuel.

  * * * *

  Inside the stable, Samuel Rowe stumbled at last, gasping and choking, into the recesses of Beatrice’s stall. Above him, flames whipped back and forth across the ceiling. Faces, visions, entirely beautiful scenes swirled, erupted, faded and were consumed, just as happens throughout the whole of life. Some say that the last face to appear in one’s mind should be the face of one’s maker. Others say it should be the face of that person’s greatest love. For Samuel Rowe, the visions resolved themselves finally into the face of Thomas FitzAlan. It steadied and became almost solid, caught in an aureole of flame.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas,” Samuel Rowe wept, his tears sizzling away in the heat of the air. “I tried! I tried my best!”

  The face formed a wan smile and the lips parted. For Samuel Rowe, the howl of the fire quieted, like spectators at a hanging, pausing to hear the last words of the condemned. “Thank you, Samuel,” the fiery spectre whispered. “I know you did.” A long, red arm reached down into the stall to touch his face.

  Chapter 40 – All Saints Day

  All Saints Day, 1421 – a day that dawned crisp as lettuce and cold. Madeleine slept almost to noon and woke on her own sleeping pallet in the second room of her own family’s house. It was the goat that woke her, having wandered in to bleat a foggy-breathed hello. Village sounds followed close on, coming through the daub walls – call of names, clank of tools, quack of ducks. People were about their chores. Her first and second thoughts were gentle – guilt that she’d overslept and missed the milking, annoyance with Maude and Anwen that they’d slipped out and failed to wake her. Her third thought crashed into her like a runaway cart.

  It was of a man, the size of an ox. She’d been sprawled in manure-laden straw, looking up as the point of his dagger spiralled toward her. She remembered the spine-prickling coldness in his voice: ‘It won’t hurt for long!’ – like he was only going to scrape a wart or pinch out a splinter! She remembered ter
ror and she remembered closing her eyes. And then she was here! Safe and warm, under her own woollen rug! In her own home! An instant of time and the murderous leer of a killer had changed into the kindly curious gaze of the family goat! Had it been a dream?

  She threw back the rug. A linen wrapping surrounded her ankle, one end at the tips of her toes and the other half way up her calf. An ugly blue-black bruise peeped from beneath the ends and the smell of hemlock told her that a heavy liniment had been applied. But that was all! Breaks and sprains were common occurrences in the village and the reactions she’d seen had led her to believe the pain must be horrible. But this ankle, despite the bruise, hardly hurt at all! In fact, it felt almost – not quite, but almost – firm enough to walk on!

  Dizzy with confusion, Madeleine threw her arms around the goat’s neck, burying her face in its thick coat.

  “Oh goat!” she cried, inhaling its pungent animal odour, trying to fill her senses with its gentle, shaggy warmth.

  “Baaaahhh!” the goat answered sympathetically and, on the instant, the curtain over the doorway was thrown back. It was Gwenith.

  “Sshhh!” she hissed, her eyes bulging. Terror, it seemed, was occupying both rooms of the house. “Be still! You mustn’t . . . !”

  But a man’s voice was already rumbling low in the background, stifling the rest of her comment.

  “Ah! The goat tells the story, eh! Come madame! Your daughter is not a potato, to be locked away in the root cellar.”

  Gwenith was pressed gently to one side and the voice’s owner stepped into the room, searching the gloom for Madeleine. On finding her, he slipped off his cap and said, as if he was a long lost cousin, “Madeleine! You are Madeleine, yes?” Madeleine stared up at him, wordlessly. “Permit me,” he continued, moving to let the light fall on her. “I am Perceval de Coucy-Gines, Sieur d’Aubermont and, temporarily, guardian of Lady Joan de Beaufort. A lady who, along with myself, is in your debt!”

  Both Madeleine and the goat shook their heads worriedly (she for amazement, it for escape from Madeleine’s choking grip).

  “Yes, yes!” Perceval affirmed. “My wife has told of your attempt to distract Sir Cyril. Lady Joan, it may be, is alive today because of you! And so you see, all of England . . . and one poor Frenchman . . . we are in your debt!”

  To Madeleine, this made as much sense as a rabbit being thanked for rescuing a bear.

  “No, your lordship!” she coughed out. “It were t’other way ‘round! Mister Rowe! He had me marked out an’ . . . !”

  “Ah! Forgive me mademoiselle! But this subject – Monsieur Rowe – it touches on a point! All of England thanks you, but Sir Roland . . . he suffers losses, non? There is a knight at the door who must bring you to the Great Hall, to answer. I think this knight is not a patient man and so, you see, I have imposed myself. I have promised to persuade you to come – quietly – in silence.”

  “She don’ know no answers at all!” Gwenith cried. “She’s just a girl, see! An’ not a bright one, neither! Why can’t ‘e leave ‘er be?”

  “Madame, this is not for me or you to say. Sir Roland is Lord of Clun. What happens in his castle, he must understand! His steward, Monsieur Rowe. The knight, Sir Cyril. Both dead, you know! And the burning of his stable. And . . . the matter of this man, Glyndwr!”

  “But I don’ know nothin’ ‘bout any o’ that!” Madeleine wept. “None of it’s to do wi’ me!”

  “Perhaps no,” he said. Then, leaning confidentially toward her he added, “But Sir Roland thinks, perhaps yes!” He looked a question at Gwenith and murmured, “Between us, my friends, treason is spoken of! You, Madeleine; your sisters, your father! Perhaps the whole of the village! Eh bien, Madeleine! Today you answer for many lives!” He glanced out the door then hurried on.

  “I have promised the witch to help you; as I can, when I can. But even Lady Joan dares not to intervene in such matters! I can only tell you, if you refuse to come quietly, you will be taken. And it will go poorly with you. Beyond that, you must answer carefully. Where truth will serve, be true. Where it will not . . . je regret . . . I am sorry! You must find your way.”

  He stepped away then and raised his voice to a stern, official level.

  “Assez bien, mademoiselle! Have I not told you? Sir Roland commands your obedience! Immediatement! You will tell your story only to him! Come now! I will carry you to the pony!”

  Bewilderment and terror made an evil mix in Madeleine’s mind. In the past week she’d been kidnapped, lost in the forest, chased by wolves, confronted by skeletons and locked in the castle! Yesterday alone, two different men – men she didn’t even know – had tried to murder her! And today, she’d woken up to find herself snatched out of all that, as though it had been a dream, but with an exotically foreign knight telling her that the Lord of Clun wanted answers from her and that lives depended on which truths she told and which she chose to hide! In a week’s turning, the only thing that hadn’t changed in her life was that she still had nothing at all resembling answers!

  And that was the resentment that rose in her as Sir Perceval slid an arm under her legs. What about her questions? Why, when her whole life was a question, was she expected to provide answers? She tightened her grip on the goat’s neck as though it was the only bollard capable of keeping her from drifting away, and, “No!” she cried. “Wait! Stop! I . . . I . . . need to know . . . !”

  There was so much! Where to begin?

  “Ma!” she managed to spit out. “Where’s Maude? Where’s Annie?”

  Perceval paused, letting his knees sink to the dirt floor: “Ssshhh, cherie! Softly and quickly!” – and waited while Gwenith hiccupped, “Oh Maddie! They’re at the castle wi’ your da’! Sir Rolan’ wouldn’ let ‘em come ‘ome las’ night!” And suddenly her tears were flowing. “Oh baby! I was tryin’ to ‘ide ye away! Keep at least one o’ me girls out’ve ‘arm’s way. But ye have to go back, Maddie! You ‘ave to tell Sir Rolan’ what ‘e needs to ‘ear, so’s I c’n ‘ave me fam’ly back! Jus’ get everythin’ back like it was!”

  Beyond, in the outer room, they heard the second knight grumbling over a nearly empty barrel of ale. Perceval grimaced. “We must go.” And Madeleine, though it made her heart hammer to do so, let go the goat and put her arms around his neck. He hefted her easily and, while Gwenith adjusted material to cover Madeleine’s legs, he whispered to her, “You must not deceive yourself, Madame. Events do not go back like they were! Ever! Sir Roland may not find treason. But in matters of honour, mercy becomes a forgotten child.”

  That bleak implication, coupled with the shock of the cold air as they stepped outside, made Madeleine realise there was one task that she definitely could not postpone any longer.

  “Please, Sir. I an’t bin to the midden yet!”

  She wriggled uncomfortably and, though the second knight growled a “Too bad!” Perceval put her gently down.

  “If you would take to Sir Roland a prisoner who reeks of piss,” he said to the man, “your courage is greater than mine!”

  He leaned Madeleine into Gwenith’s arms and the two of them step-hopped away toward the back of the house. When the second knight, muttering, “Bloody pig-shite stink!” made to follow, Perceval caught and held his arm.

  “Decency forbids, monsieur! Even in England, nest ce pas?”

  The last moment Madeleine would have with her mother had no chance of being wasted.

  “Ma! I don’t remember nothin’! Last I knew, that knight was comin’ for me! Then I was here! What treason’m I answerin’ to?”

  That plea and their momentary seclusion were all the invitation Gwenith needed. Squatting down beside her daughter, she unleashed her own frothy torrent of whispered words.

  “Oh, Maddie! Eustace put an arrow through a knight! An’ then Mister Rowe got ‘imself burned up in a fire! An’ . . . an’ . . . two days back, Owain Glyndwr comes walkin’ into Clun – like some sort o’ ghost out o’ the forest! An’ ‘e says to yer da’, to Gwilym, �
��e says, ‘I’m yer pris’ner! Ye can trade me for yer girls!’ That’s you an’ Annie, see! So yer da’, ‘e says – to Owain Glyndwr, mind you – the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, we’re talkin’ about – the rightful Prince o’ Wales, see! Yer da’ says, ‘Thank you, Owain’! Like ‘e’s jus’ talkin’ to ol’ Hunchback Harold, see! Imagine it! An’ so that’s what they done! But now there’s talk as there’s two Owain Glyndwrs an’ Sir Rolan’ don’ know which is true, see? An’ maybe someone’s playin’ ‘im for a fool! An’ you ‘n’ Annie, they say . . . they say you been in the forest with ‘im, helpin’ stir up trouble!”

  Mother and daughter, squatting side by side. Steam was rising from the ground beneath them but, on this cold bright morning, already momentous with death and double-dealing, it was also rising from Madeleine’s mind. If someone said she’d been helping Owain Glyndwr, or even that that sick old man could stir up trouble . . . they were lying! And what fool would think anyone in dreary little Clun, let alone its children, would have any incentive to stir up trouble! How was anyone going to see any sense in anything if they were going to be seeing things that weren’t there? Two Owain Glyndwrs? Stupid! All right then! She’d go and hear Sir Roland’s questions, sure enough! But maybe she’d be asking a couple of her own as well!

  “Right!” she snarled. “Help me up, ma! I’m ready!”

  * * * *

  When they rounded the house again, they found that the second knight, his patience exhausted, had moved off to threaten a gathering of gawping villagers. No one, seeing the lazy sway of his horse’s rump or hearing his curt warnings could have doubted his power or menace. The villagers scurried to left and right, abandoning the road they themselves had built to connect them to the castle.

  “He clears the way,” Perceval said, gesturing with a toss of his head. “You understand our predicament, yes? No one may speak to you!”

  He lifted Madeleine lightly onto the pony and, looking back at Gwenith he said, “Madame, you may walk along. But, for the sake of my honour, I must hear no speech between you. Understand?” Again Gwenith nodded.