“Trés bien. Now, for the sake of the pony, I must concentrate on this track.”
He sombrely winked one large brown eye at the trembling women and, turning toward the castle, wondered if Myfanwy had known, when she extracted the promise from him, what a desperate journey the girl would be taking or how little help he’d really be able to offer. Behind them, from the door of the house, the goat watched them go.
“Baaahh!” it bleated from the open doorway. “Baaaahhh!” Where is everyone going? No one was entirely sure.
* * * *
For all her despair, Gwenith had not missed the invitation hidden in Sir Perceval’s warning. They hadn’t gone ten yards before she sidled near and began to whimper out her fears.
“Ye won’t be givin’ Sir Rolan’ reason to be rash, will ye Maddie? Remember, ‘e did let the Cunnin’ Woman tend to ye las’ night! An’ ‘e let Eustace bring ye ‘ome! Course that were before they found them burned up men an’ ‘at second Glyndwr! It’s jus’. . . !”
“The Cunnin’ Woman fixed me ankle?”
“Bless me yes! Mixin’ an’ stirrin’! Strange words! I were frightened at first, ye were so pitiful! But she . . . she talked like she knew ye! An’ Maudie ‘n’ Annie, as well! ‘Speshly Maude! Don’ know ‘ow that could be, though!” She glanced at Madeleine from lowered eyes. “Do you?”
Madeleine frowned thoughtfully. Ever more questions! Did she know why a travelling Cunning Woman would seem to know her? Or why Sir Roland would look at her and think treason? Or why a French gentleman – a knight – would risk Roland’s wrath to help her? Or how Sir Roland could have wound up with two Owain Glyndwrs in Clun Castle, when just the one was hardly fit to walk across a room? Of course she didn’t!
“. . . workin’ on Brenton!” Gwenith was whispering, ever more rapidly and compulsively. “Seen men less hurt’n ‘im fall down dead in their tracks, I ‘ave! Jus’ fall down dead! Would o’ bin sendin’ for Father Reginald if it was me! ‘Cept ‘e in’t back from Shrewsbury yet! Days since ‘e went off! Should o’ seen the way Annie clung to that boy when they ‘auled ‘im out o’ the ‘aystack, Maddie! Would o’ broke yer heart!”
Her breath was coming in short gasps and she was slowly falling behind but she barely seemed to notice. So long as she talked, even if it was to herself, she wouldn’t have to think.
“Don’ know what’s goin’ on wi’ Maudie, for truth! Couldn’ get a word out’ve‘er las’ night! Not a word! Starin’ about like we was all ghosts! Needs a pinch’ or a slap, I says, but the Cunnin’ Woman says let ‘er be, she says! ‘Ad a shock, she says! Give ‘er some time, she says. Always bin a strange one, Maudie has! Always! Annie’s me lovin’ girl! Maddie’s me questionin’ girl. An’ Maudie . . . always bin me strange one!”
Madeleine looked down, watching her mother’s increasingly breathless attempt to keep up. For want of breath, the torrent of words was subsiding, but Gwenith’s mouth continued to work, her arms to pump with exaggerated effort and her eyes to glare at the ground ahead of her feet. Unseen, Madeleine reached to touch her mother’s hair but wasn’t quite close enough to make contact. As she hadn’t been for an age. Just a little out of reach! She settled for words instead.
“I reckon there’s jus’ things ‘bout us all ‘at none of us understands, ma’! ‘At’s all! We’ll work it out after this business is done, eh?”
She reached for her mother again and this time she did make contact, but only because Sir Perceval had stopped the pony and was casting them a warning glance. Gwenith immediately scuttled back out of reach and, when Sir Perceval started again, she stayed where she was, frozen in place, sniffling into the breeze.
* * * *
For the rest of the journey, Madeleine worked at making sense of the changes that had suddenly been inflicted on Clun. Her mother, reduced to this fearful creature. Her powerful father locked in the castle. The labourers’ tools abandoned in the fields as the workers gathered in small argumentative knots. It was the first and only time in Madeleine’s memory that information rather than perspiration had become the currency of the village, or that such a sense of urgent readiness had shimmered on the air.
At the gate a large gathering of villagers milled about, watching their approach, and the second knight stopped to stare down on them, daring them with his eyes to call out to the prisoner. None did dare. None ever would have dared to openly defy a knight of the realm. But this day, some few – the more courageous ones – looked squarely back at him with open hatred and others challenged his authority with a nod or wink of encouragement in her direction. Involuntarily, the knight pulled his horse back a step and the look he cast Sir Perceval seemed to contain more than a hint of surprise. His hand went to his sword, just as a lone voice at the back of the crowd sang out, “Lord o’ mercy, ‘at’s Father Reginald’s donkey! An’ bless me twice if that in’t him ridin’ on top!”
Everyone turned to look. Three figures! Two on horses and one on a donkey! Emerging from the forest road! The Father’s figure, with his long legs trailing ridiculously almost to the ground, was unmistakable! And so too, then, were Davey and Hubert, standing in their saddles and waving like loonies! Here was someone the villagers could talk to, and someone who’d have new information! Like water from a bucket, the tension and the crowd both flowed away downhill, taking with them their great hullabaloo of questions.
“Father! Father! What’sa news from Shrewsbury? The sheriff comin’ or what?”
“Father, Sir Roland’s got the reeve locked up! How we gonna get ‘im back?”
“Mister Rowe’s been burned up, Father! How can we do wi’out a steward?”
“Owain Glyndwr’s been caught, Father! Turns out ‘e’s twins!”
“They’re talkin’ treason, Father! Surely you ent come alone?”
“Can we not stop a minute, Sir?” Madeleine pleaded to Sir Perceval. “Please! Enough to ‘ear a word, even?”
For answer, he gestured upwards at the soldiers who peered down like scarecrows from the parapet, and carried on into the cold shadow of the wall.
Passing beneath that walkway, for Madeleine, was like passing beyond the line of visibility in the forest; putting her beyond all help. She twisted in the saddle for a last look but the crowd was already out of sight. Only Gwenith remained, stuck in the middle of the road.
Inside, her eyes went immediately to the smoking tangle of blackened beams that lay where, for the better part of a century, the grand old stable had stood. Around the courtyard, twenty or more great warhorses, tethered where chance had allowed, hung their heads in weary, three-legged stillness and Beatrice the cow, painfully heavy with milk, brayed her distress. From beneath Perceval’s boots, listless swirls of black ash rose and Madeleine wondered again, even as the villagers were wondering – even as Sir Roland was wondering – How did everything go so wrong?
It the entrance to the keep the pony stopped and Sir Perceval lifted her down.
“It was only a barn, cherie. It goes . . . another is built, eh? In life, all is change.”
And it struck her how strange and new that thought was – all is change. A week ago, she’d have said – probably did say – that nothing ever changed – at least not in tame, predictable, traditional Clun! This week, though, Clun was part of a wholly new, different and dangerous world!
“I must tie the pony, Madeleine. You will wait for me here, n’est ce pas?”
He went, but was only yards away when the sullen knight who’d ridden ahead appeared at her side.
“Inside,” he grumbled, gesturing with his head.
His eyes seemed to slip off her somehow, like feet slip on pond scum.
“Sir Perceval said to wait for him!” she squeaked.
“And I said . . . inside!” He pushed her roughly and she fell.
“I . . . I can’t walk! I need help!”
Angrily, he put a huge arm around her waist and hoisted, leaving her to hang across his hip like a bundle of rags. Out in the courtyard, Sir P
erceval shook his head sadly.
“Now for the hunter,” he murmured. “Fly your best, little bird!”
* * * *
The Great Hall was ringed with armed knights. In the centre were several small groups, the largest of which contained the unmistakable giant frame of her father. He was speaking angrily to a grey-haired, roughly dressed man with a twin-pointed beard – Silent Richard. Lodged between them, as though to keep them apart, was Jack Sorespot, his leg newly bandaged. And listening in were Maude, Anwen and another, darker figure who Madeleine took for the Cunning Woman. Even from a distance, it was clear that all remained, a day after the fire, smeared and filthy with ash.
In another part of the hall, she saw Marie and Joan de Beaufort, whispering tiredly to one another. When they spied Sir Perceval crossing toward them, they looked nervously about for Madeleine, found her, and sent faint encouraging smiles in her direction.
It was the last group, though, that dominated the room: Sir Roland, towering with rage over Jeremy Talbot - Jeremy who, less than a day ago, had rescued her, Annie and Brenton LeGros from the vast and terrible Sir Cyril. Sir Roland’s florid complexion and thrusting finger echoed almost exactly those that Gwilym was directing, with equal vehemence but much less volume, at Silent Richard on the other side of the room.
“I will not be made a fool of, Sir!” Roland was roaring at Jeremy. “Not by some ancient Welsh rascal of an imposter! Do you hear?”
Next to Sir Roland, Lady Margaret stood demurely, with bowed head and folded hands while behind Jeremy, his eyes glazed with determination, Eustace swayed at attention.
All this Madeleine saw from barely two large steps into the hall, which was where her nameless escort plopped her. As though some key in him had wound down and he could go no further, he simply flipped her onto her feet and stopped. Her knees aquiver, she teetered half-way to the floor and, when she looked up again, every eye in the hall was on her. Sir Roland took a step toward her, stopped and cast a warning glance around the room.
“Not a word!” he growled. “Not a single, solitary word!”
Then he crooked his finger at her – Come here!
Even on two good legs and her bravest day, Madeleine would have struggled to make that journey. On this day, she had no hope. She looked to the knight who’d carried her in. He didn’t move. She looked back to Sir Roland whose Jeremy-inspired rage had clearly not abated. She looked back to the knight, put a finger on his arm and whimpered softly, “Please, Sir Knight!” He gave her nothing – no word, no gesture, no look – nothing. He was like a mechanical thing – a cart or a plough – whose oxen have wandered away. Or perhaps it was she who was the cart or the plough! And he was letting it be known that his own oxen duties were finished.
Sir Roland’s hands became fists which rose to brace themselves against his hips. He eyes became daggers which sighted angrily down the long shaft of his nose. There was nothing for it. Madeleine shifted the smallest possible amount of weight onto her blackened toes and took a quick, wincing step forward. And in that moment, she saw her father break free from his group.
“Stay!” roared Sir Roland by way of reprimand, and Gwilym stopped. His eyes, though, held an expression Madeleine knew well. She’d seen it only moments ago in the eyes of villagers outside the gate; like those of a dog that’s re-discovered a wish to be its own master. He paused for so long that the hush in the hall not only took on a life of its own – it broke out in a cold sweat. Madeleine’s lips moved. “Please! Don’t!” She could do it. She would do it! She looked down, put her wounded foot out for another step.
And he was there, even before her weight shifted, sweeping her up in his arms. He made no fuss, uttered no word, paused not at all but, grim-faced, strode with her across the hall. In front of Sir Roland, he returned her gently to her feet and, like the fiercer knight who’d carried her, he too stopped, fixing his gaze on the middle of Sir Roland’s breastplate. Even with his head bowed, he was half a head taller than Sir Roland. Even without a weapon – only his big hands open and empty at his sides – his sense of menace was palpable. All around the room, knights shifted uneasily.
“I warned you, Reeve!” hissed Sir Roland. “I warned you all! Not to challenge me! In any way!” He cast his eyes about the room until they landed on the knight who’d supported Madeleine. “You!” he barked and, indicating Gwilym with a movement of his chin, said coldly, “Kill him!”
On the instant, the knight’s broadsword sang out of its scabbard, the hilt lost in his great two-fisted grip. The blade slammed out into a line that ended at Gwilym’s chest and the man began purposefully to walk across the hall. No one else in the hall, aside from Sir Roland’s men, had a weapon. Even so, Jeremy rose halfway from his seat, Silent Richard raised an arm, Sir Perceval stepped in front of Marie and Joan and Jack Sorespot drew breath to cry out. Even Eustace pawed at his jerkin, as though wondering where his bow had been left.
And Gwilym turned, his face expressionless, his massive chest swelling with a slow intake of air. He lowered his head ever so slightly, like a bull preparing to charge and around the perimeter of the hall Sir Roland’s knights shuffled, their leather garments creaking as they reached for weapons.
No more than a dozen large steps lay between Gwilym and the knight. For the first four steps the sword held its level aim at Gwilym’s heart. At step five, it began a downward arc. By step seven, it was pointing back behind the knight and his body had twisted sideways, like that of a man who swings an axe. By step nine, the man’s double handed grip was parallel with his shoulder, the tip of the blade a yard behind his head. At step ten, the cords in the man’s neck stood out, his eyes flared and the sword’s tip reached the highest point of its arc. Only seconds had passed between Sir Roland’s first order, to kill, and his second order.
“Stop!”
The blade sighed to a standstill, barely a foot above the spot where Gwilym’s neck met his shoulder, and Roland stepped casually forward. Nodding, making a careful pretence of studying its position, he walked half-way around Gwilym.
“You, Reeve,” he said very softly, tapping Gwilym’s chest, “are a man who may yet die – to defend his family. I can respect that. But I, on the other hand . . . am a man who would kill to defend his country. Hmm? Can you see the difference between us, I wonder? Or is that concept too difficult . . . for a peasant?” And he pushed the blade away dismissively.
“I grant you time to think on that, Reeve. And while you’re at it, think on this. You will gain nothing by dying here today. And I will lose nothing . . . not even a night’s sleep, by killing you.” With his forefinger, he tapped Gwilym’s chest again, once, twice, three times.
He allowed his gaze to travel about the hall where all, including the knights, remained frozen in states of alert half-readiness. He shrugged, showed his open hands and smiled thinly.
“You see? The people of Clun need not be in danger from their lord! I am not a monster!” The smile, however, could not survive the wind of his frustration. It frayed, fell apart, and one hand folded itself again into a fist with only the forefinger left free to point at the ceiling. “But I will not be ignored!” he thundered. “Not made a fool! Not lied to!” The finger came down, scribed a slow arc about the room and came to rest pointing at Madeleine. “And that,” he finished with a small semblance of control, “is where you come in!”
He kicked a stool in Madeleine’s direction, dismissed the knight with a flick of his head and chested up to Gwilym. “Move back!” And Gwilym did. His steps reluctant, his jaw working massively, he made his way back to stand by Silent Richard. Madeleine, trembling like a new-born calf, lowered herself onto the stool and Sir Roland, walking a circle around her, began a booming discourse.
“A knight of the realm has been killed in Clun!” He looked grimly up at Eustace. “My steward is also dead.” He looked around the ring of listeners. “The reasons why – as she knows them – have been explained by the Lady Joan de Beaufort, whose word, of course, is .
. . not to be doubted. Still . . .” He sighed deeply, unable to go further in that direction. “Scots!” He slammed a fist into his palm. “Fled in the night! All of ‘em! Who were they? What were they up to in Clun? Someone knows! And that someone, I promise you . . .” he whirled on Madeleine, bent over and thrust his face near hers, “will hang for treason!”
Madeleine’s jaw fell open and a tide of vomit lurched at the back of her throat. She covered her mouth with her hands, more in fear of it than of her own questions: How could I know? Why ask me? I’m just a village girl – nobody!
“Although,” Roland continued, more gently, squeezing out a tight little smile, “maybe there’s a way out! Because maybe . . . maybe I already know why they were here! Maybe they were here cooking up trouble with . . .,” he flung his arm out to point at Silent Richard, “. . . Owain Glyndwr! Or . . .” dramatically flinging his other arm out to point at Jeremy, “ . . . is that Owain Glyndwr?”
Madeleine sat, her hands still jammed over her mouth. She looked from Richard to Jeremy and back to Sir Roland, with no idea of what he was talking about. He stood away from her and walked another circle around her.
“Glyndwr the ghost! Glyndwr the magician! Last night, you see, I accepted the surrender of the mighty Owain Glyndwr! And this morning . . . I find that I have two of them! I don’t want two of them! It is not my intention to show up in London with a tribe of Glyndwrs. I will take one – the right one! And none other! Now!” His voice came down to a semblance of calm. “Out of deference to Lady Joan, I have . . . so far . . . refrained from . . . squeezing the truth into the open.” He drew a ragged breath and once again showed the crowd his open hands. “You see? I understand! We are in new times! The peasants . . . are . . .!” He rotated his hands in the air, hoping, but unable, to paw up a suitable word. “But these are still the Marches! My Marches! And upon my honour, I will defend them!” He looked balefully about the room, as though challenging anyone to doubt him. “To that end, I must have the true Glyndwr! So that he and I can . . . talk . . . about these Scots!”
Children of Clun Page 35
