She stared at him blankly, trying to make sense of what he was saying. She could see Sian by the door behind him with Bryn beside her. Meryn was forcing her to think, to come back and to remember. She leant back against the pillows and looked at her hands. They were bruised and bleeding.
He noticed at the same time she did and reached out for them gently with a sigh.
‘Did you remember nothing of what I told you?’ he asked.
She shook her head miserably.
‘Don’t touch anything; don’t let anyone touch you. You anchored yourself in the past, Andy. You chose to stay there.’
‘A prisoner with Catrin.’ She was crying now. ‘I didn’t want to leave her alone. She’s locked up in Hay Castle. They want to charge her with witchcraft and weather magic.’ A tear trickled down her face.
‘You cannot help her, Andy,’ Meryn said firmly. ‘Nothing you do will affect what happens to her.’ He studied her face intently. ‘Now, I want you to stand up.’
She gave a little whimper.
‘Now, Andy.’ He bent and picked up the branch of rosemary, crushing the leaves between his hands. The scent filled the room again.
‘You used that to force me to wake up?’
‘And it’s clearing your head, whether you want it to or not.’
‘Catrin has been arrested and dragged off to the castle as a prisoner.’ Andy reached out and stroked the rosemary. The scent filled the air, heady, warm. ‘Did you get this from the pot on the terrace? I had to help her. You do see, don’t you? I had to do something. I couldn’t leave her.’
‘You cannot alter history, Andy.’
‘But if I am there, I am part of history.’
‘If you are a part of history, Andy, then the outcome is out of your hands and you must accept whatever happens, not only to Catrin, but to you as well.’
She felt herself grow cold. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I am saying that you must not let that happen.’
28
Bryn had three new emails waiting when he finally arrived home that night, one from London and two from the States. Sian and Meryn were spending the night at Sleeper’s Castle. They didn’t need him. He pushed the memory of Andy’s distraught, tear-streaked face firmly out of his mind and, sitting down with his laptop, he opened the inbox and started to read.
He had sent the emails the day before. He had been mulling over Andy’s mention of the fact that Rhona had spent time in the US and it was obviously worth asking. The name Rhona Wilson had drawn a blank with the first. Opening the second he sat forward with sudden interest. Chemically dyed scarlet/crimson hair was the last thing he expected to turn up in the database; who in their right mind would walk around with something so immediately recognisable? But she wasn’t in her right mind, was she, and there it was. The vicious murder of a man called Abner Schmitt had happened in Massachusetts and a warrant had been issued but never served. Psychopathic was the word his former colleague in the forensic department in Boston had used. The name of the suspect was different but the description fitted exactly.
His own six-month stint in the US had been one of the most informative and exciting parts of his former career. He had nearly decided to stay out there and make it his permanent residence, but his wife had had a sharp attack of home sickness – what in Wales they call hiraeth – and he had come back. But he had kept in touch socially with some of his former colleagues; that much at least of his connection to his past life had held strong.
He looked back at the email. Psychopath, sociopath, what did it matter? A woman answering Rhona’s description was chief suspect in a gruesome killing which was still on the books as unsolved. The victim had been a US citizen who had been resident in the UK for some time. He looked at the date. It could fit Andy’s recollection. He sat back and thought for a long time. Was it too great a coincidence? He moved on to the third email, this one from a former colleague at the Maudsley Hospital in London, and there she was again, roots growing out this time, which was strange. He would have thought, given Rhona’s controlling personality, that she would have ensured she was immaculate at all times. The name was Sally Smith and a note had been made that it was almost certainly an alias. Her true name had never been discovered, or more accurately, probably no one had had the time to follow it up. He looked at the dates and made a note. One killing had occurred seven months after she and Graham Wilson had split up, the other two years before their marriage. Nothing seemed to have come up in either country in the last ten years, but then, who knows, she might have discovered wigs, or taken a temporary liking to another colour or maybe she had just gone quiet, waiting for something to push her over the top again; something like the death of her husband; or even, if Meryn was right, the atmosphere of a place like Sleeper’s Castle.
That thought made sense. To anyone remotely sensitive or spacy the energy at Sleeper’s Castle could be overwhelming. Its history was self-evident. He remembered how he had felt when he first went to work there. In the early days the place had exhausted him; when he had started to get attuned it had become more and more energising and then at last he had begun to see things himself. Figures, shadows in the mist. Occasionally he had heard voices, snatches of conversation. He fetched himself a lager from the fridge. To someone who was already unstable it could act as a touchpaper.
He took a swig from the bottle. At least for tonight Andy was safe from the woman. Tomorrow he would go to the police.
He glanced doubtfully back at his inbox. The trouble was, unfortunately all this was purely circumstantial. There were no fingerprints, no forensics, not even what Matt in Boston described as a strand of her ‘goddam hair’.
Slipping from the pony, Joan tied its reins around the gatepost and scanned the forecourt of her father’s farm. There was no one about. Even the dogs were missing. She walked across to the door and went in. Her sister-in-law Elizabeth was sitting by the fire, stitching. She looked up in astonishment. ‘Joan? What are you doing here?’
‘I came to see Edmund. Is he here?’
She waited, holding her breath as Elizabeth stuck her needle into the soft linen coif she was sewing and stood up, dropping the work on the cushions of the settle behind her. ‘Yes, he’s here,’ she said haughtily. ‘If he wanted to endear himself to father-in-law again he couldn’t have thought of a better way of doing it. Arriving as a shabby outlaw, covered in blood and dirt! He and your mother were beside themselves with worry and fear when they saw the state he was in. He told them he had forsworn Glyndŵr and your father opened his arms and forgave him everything.’
Joan came to stand closer to the fire. She was soaked through after the ride. ‘Can I see him?’
Elizabeth looked her up and down. ‘That won’t be possible. He has gone out with your father and Richard to ride the bounds.’
‘To ride the bounds?’ Joan echoed. ‘Is he well enough to ride?’
‘Yes, he seems to think so.’ Elizabeth glanced at Joan again. ‘You look worried.’
‘Of course I am worried. He promised he would let us know what happened after he had spoken to Father.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘I doubt if he would have wanted to remind anyone of where you work and who you work for.’
‘He told you how we saved his life on more than one occasion, I trust?’ Joan retorted tartly.
Elizabeth sneered at her. ‘Oh yes, he did that all right.’
‘And what did Father say?’ Joan was becoming impatient. She and Elizabeth had never seen eye to eye.
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders eloquently. ‘He was too thrilled with the return of the prodigal son,’ she said coldly, ‘to think about you. Father has been celebrating ever since. Naturally, he killed the fatted calf and tonight there will be a feast.’
Joan heaved a great sigh of relief. ‘And has he paid the fine?’ She folded her arms under her wet cloak, trying to stem her shivering. Elizabeth had made no move to offer her a change of clothes or even ask her to sit down. She was stil
l standing dripping onto the rush matting where she had been since she walked into the room.
‘What fine?’ Elizabeth looked shocked.
Joan bit her tongue. Obviously the woman hadn’t been told everything.
‘I hope it is not something he wants paid by his father!’ Elizabeth was growing more indignant by the second. ‘The income from this farm has dropped to almost nothing since these wretched wars.’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Joan gave up waiting to be asked. She untied her cloak and dropped it on the floor where she stood, then she moved closer to the fire and squatted down on the hearthstone, holding out her hands to the fire. ‘I’ll wait to see him now I’m here,’ she said tartly. ‘Where is my mother?’
‘She’s resting upstairs. You can go and see her later.’ Joan’s mother had never been a strong woman; she had handed over the reins of the house to her daughter-in-law with what seemed to be alacrity as soon as Richard had married, retiring to her solar upstairs where she sewed and wove and dreamed her days away, appearing only for meals.
‘You had better sit down.’ Elizabeth was finally shamed into action. She called two of her maids and bade one of them fetch a warm shawl for her sister-in-law and to take her cloak away to dry in the bakehouse, then she told the other to throw more logs on the fire. Joan took the proffered stool, with its comfortable cushion, reminding herself that for all her airs and graces her sister-in-law had married into a yeoman family, albeit a wealthy one, and was no better than Joan herself. It was a comforting thought.
As though picking up on Joan’s reverie Elizabeth leaned forward from her seat on the cushioned settle and addressed her with a supercilious smile. ‘So, you still work for the Welsh poet and his daughter?’
Joan tightened her lips. ‘I do.’
‘They don’t make you speak the devil’s language, do they?’
Joan clenched her teeth. ‘If you mean Welsh, I speak it, as do many of your neighbours, living on the border as we all do,’ she said shortly. ‘As does Father. And Edmund. I am surprised you have not learned it yourself after all these years married to Richard.’
It was with some satisfaction she saw Elizabeth’s face colour.
It was nearly dark when the three men came home. Joan stood up nervously as her father appeared. Raymond of Hardwicke stopped in his tracks, staring at her, then he gave a curt smile. ‘So, Joan. Have you come to see how Edmund does?’
She nodded.
Edmund stepped forward. He was very pale and he looked exhausted. ‘How are you, Joan? Is everything all right?’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I need to talk to you urgently.’
Edmund glanced round. The rest of his family were talking together loudly, and fussing over one of the family dogs, which had torn its paw on some brambles while they were out.
He caught Joan’s hand and led her into the far corner of the room. ‘We’ll have to talk here. Hurry. What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Catrin has been arrested. She is being held in Hay Castle on charges of witchcraft and treason.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘They dragged her off at dawn.’
Edmund stared at her, aghast. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. Betsi went down to the market to see if she could find anything out. They are talking about nothing else. They say she will be taken before the Lent Assize. They say …’ she paused and looked up at him miserably, ‘they say she will be hanged for treason or burned as a witch.’
‘Edmund?’ Elizabeth’s voice was sharp. ‘Come over here near the fire. I am sure Joan can’t have any news she can’t share with the rest of the family.’
They glanced at each other and reluctantly moved closer to the fire. Edmund was white with shock.
‘So, Joan, how is life with the poet and his daughter?’ Her father looked at her critically.
‘My life with them is busy, Father,’ she replied. She met his eye boldly. ‘As you know we looked after Edmund and dressed his wounds on more than one occasion before he rode on here. I came to see how he was as no one had seen fit to let us know.’
Raymond looked at her in irritation. ‘Didn’t Elizabeth send a maid over to inform you?’ He glared at his daughter-in-law.
She looked slightly discomfited. ‘I am sorry. I meant to arrange it. I must have forgotten. There was so much to do with celebrating Edmund’s return.’
Joan said nothing. Her withering glance at her sister-in-law spoke volumes. ‘Soldiers raided Sleeper’s Castle this morning,’ she said defiantly. ‘They knocked me out and took Catrin away.’
Her words were greeted by a stunned silence.
‘Why should they do that?’ Elizabeth spoke first.
‘I don’t think they need a reason,’ Joan snapped. ‘There is hardly a farmstead or manor in the whole Wye Valley which hasn’t been visited by one side or the other over the last half-dozen years. She has been charged with treason.’ She glanced at Edmund.
‘And her father?’ Edmund asked.
‘Wasn’t there, naturally!’ Joan couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.
‘It sounds like a trumped-up charge,’ Edmund said firmly. ‘And if Dafydd is not there to help her, then we must.’
Elizabeth snorted derisively. ‘I don’t think so. It is none of our business. From what I hear about Mistress Catrin, it’s far from a trumped-up charge. That girl has been dabbling in the devil’s arts for a long time. I’m not surprised to hear she is a traitor as well. That was why we were so against you working there from the start, Joan. If you hadn’t been such a stubborn little—’
‘Enough, Elizabeth!’ Raymond roared. ‘Joan has decided to work for these people, so she is part of their household. We should at least make enquiries as to what the situation is.’
‘I will do that,’ Edmund said.
His brother stared at him. ‘You will not. You are under suspicion yourself.’
‘He’s what?’ Raymond stared at him.
‘Oh come on, Father. You know where Edmund has been for these last few years.’ Richard glared at him.
Raymond did not reply. He turned away from them. ‘My son has been in the army,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘It has not been possible to keep track of where he has been and I have not enquired.’ He rubbed his hands together slowly. ‘He returned to us wounded and we have cared for him as any family would. That is all I need to know. Hopefully he will stay with us now and help to run the farm.’
Richard scowled. ‘So, the prodigal son returns,’ he said coldly, unwittingly echoing his wife. ‘How nice.’
‘And why not?’ Raymond said angrily.
‘Meanwhile,’ Joan said, long accustomed to inserting herself between her warring brothers, ‘what of Catrin?’
‘A Welsh woman,’ Elizabeth said coldly. ‘Don’t forget the sanctions the king has laid down against the Welsh. No English man may marry one, for a start.’ She glanced at Edmund with something like a spark of triumph in her eyes. ‘If he does, he forfeits everything. And her father is a poet and such men are forbidden to ply their trade ever again.’
‘The English king and his parliament are punishing Wales sorely,’ Edmund said softly.
‘Of course they are. They are a nation of thieves and rebels, and as such, however much you may feel we should sympathise with Catrin and her father,’ Elizabeth went on, ‘we are in no position to help them. It is against the law.’
She turned as two serving men staggered in carrying a huge basket of logs, which they put down near the fire. ‘Set up trestles and tell cook we have one extra for our meal.’ She looked at Joan. ‘I suppose you will be staying the night?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll be staying the night!’ Joan straightened her shoulders.
She did not get a chance to speak to Edmund alone until much later that evening. Elizabeth had retired to the nursery to say goodnight to her children, Richard had gone out to make sure the men had settled the stock for the night and Raymond was sitting at his desk in his study, his acco
unt books in front of him.
Edmund beckoned Joan into the corner by the fire. ‘When did they take Catrin?’ he asked urgently.
‘This morning, before I was awake. I told you. Betsi saw it all. They kicked in the door and dragged her away.’
‘And you have no idea who informed on her?’
Joan shook her head.
Edmund caught her arm and made her face him. ‘Are you sure you don’t know, Joan?’
‘You think it was me?’ She wrenched her arm away.
‘I don’t know. Sometimes I have thought you disliked her. I thought you resented her. At other times I thought you were close friends. I could make no sense of your relationship.’
‘She supports Glyndŵr and I don’t.’ Joan raised her chin and glared at him. ‘And we don’t always get on, I admit it. We are very different people. You know that. She is …’ she paused, trying to think of the right words to explain. ‘She is educated, a lady, yet not a lady. She is a dreamer, she is an independent spirit who does not like to abide by the rules. She is the woman her father made her, but she is loyal to me. She and I are friends, Edmund. We talk together, we sit and sew together, we laugh together and it was my choice to take a position with her and serve her. I would never, never, never betray her, no matter what the law says. Everyone in the whole valley, everyone in the whole March is torn, Edmund. We English have friends who are Welsh and we are told to despise them; the Welsh have friends who are English and they are told they may not treat us as friends. It is a sad time to be alive.’
There was a long silence. At last Edmund put his arm round her shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘My eloquent sister! So, my question remains. Who has betrayed her?’
‘Betsi said she thought it might be Megan, but it could be anyone in the valley, anyone in Hay. It could be a passing drover, a pedlar, a rival poet who is jealous of Master Dafydd’s talent, or hers. She is a poet in her own right, as you well know.’ She paused. ‘Her own father is jealous of her.’
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