Children of Clun

  The trap devised by Rowe required torches to be lit in the uppermost windows and on the top of the keep. Even now, Samuel was seeing to that. The castle’s lower reaches and the entryway were to be deliberately left in darkness. To the casual observer, it should appear that the castle’s defences were, as usual, non-existant.

  In his mind, Roland worked through the details of his day, congratulating himself as he went. Firstly he was now allowing himself the near certainty that Mary Gordon was, in fact, a ridiculously, pathetically disguised Elizabeth Douglas – a fraud. And a fraud who was almost certainly some part of the skulduggery that the cursed Welsh were planning. But she was, for all intents and purposes, already his prisoner!

  Secondly, he felt, he had taken adequate measure of his other ‘guests’, Sir Perceval and Lady Marie de Coucy. They, he was ready to believe, had all the hallmarks of being foreign spies, almost certainly also involved in the Scottish – Welsh machinations. But they too were contained, unable to move without his knowledge.

  And thirdly and most importantly, he had discovered that somewhere in the nearby wilderness, a specific, ancient and implacable enemy lurked – an enemy not only of himself, but of all England! And the Lady Joan de Beaufort – that stupidly spoiled child whose relationship to the king had made her a credible cover for plotters – even her presence was going to work in his favour. She needed his protection. Whatever steps Roland had to take – no matter how extreme – the king would be in his debt! The king himself! Owing a debt of gratitude to Sir Roland Lenthall!

  A smile spread across his face as he watched the waning moon rise behind a high, thin cloth of cloud. From this point on, no one in Clun would move a hair without his knowledge and supervision. And no one would doubt that Roland Lenthall was a man born to rule in the Marches.

  Down on the common, with Brenton Le Gross hidden in her wagon, Myfanwy looked up at the same diffused moonglow, like a smirk hidden behind a hand, and she shook her head, wondering what fearful deeds must soon take place in the Marches.

  Chapter 27 – Revelations

  The sun had not quite got a grip on the horizon when Tom lurched out of sleep. The ducks on the pond had not yet pulled their heads from under their wings when he popped his head out from under his blanket. The call of the morning trumpet was still just a shallow breath in the trumpeter’s lungs when Tom sighed out through the castle gate. The dogs had not yet scratched their first flea of the day when Tom shook Myfanwy out of her under-the-cart slumber.

  She, however, began to speak instantly, with exasperation, as though answering a question for the third time. “The girls are to be taken to Shrewsbury!”

  “Yes, yes! So it seems!” Tom said irritably. He’d slept little in his impatience to rouse LeGros and be gone. “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. No real danger. They’re only girls. Roland has no reason to be frightened of girls.”

  “Your ignorance of girls does ye little credit, my friend,” she answered pointedly. “Anyhow, a little fear is a good thing where men are concerned.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “Fear – it makes men careful – about their own survival! T’other things – revenge, ambition – make men careless – of life.”

  “Myfanwy, the girls are a village problem! A problem for the people of Clun! They look out for theirs – I look out for mine! And I’ve not much time to do it in. You said so yourself. He’s dying!”

  “Your problem – their problem. All problems are connected, Tom. You should know that!”

  At that point, Brenton peeped blearily and warily out through the cart’s fabric covering. His sleep, induced by one of Myfanwy’s potions, had been unusually deep and nourishing.

  “We have to leave!” Tom told him. “Now! If we wait longer, the guards may see us. And I don’t fancy having to lose them before we find our way.” He stepped back, allowing Brenton room to jump down. “I have oatcakes and cheese. Breakfast will be amongst the trees. Let’s go!”

  Before they could move off, however, Myfanwy grabbed and held Tom’s arm. “Do you know, Tom, how to tell a fish from a fisherman?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  He tried to shrug her off. Either the strangeness of her question or the volume of his answer seemed to catch the sun’s attention and the sky’s colour changed, on the instant, from deep purple to lavender. Dozens of stars winced out of view.

  “The fisherman is the one with the bait!” she hissed, her nails sawing at the fabric of his cloak. He stared at her in incomprehension. “Watch carefully. Be cautious!” she continued, her eyes boring into his. “The wise fish has learned that it can’t catch a fisherman. No matter how great a fish it is – or how poor the fisherman! What has the foolish fish learned, eh?” She pushed him away. “Now go! Dip your head in the stream. And listen.”

  Brenton stood with his mouth agape, wondering what strange talk this was. He wanted to ask questions, but Tom yanked his arm and started him off across the common. Minutes later, when the trumpet call tumbled down the hill and across the fields to the river, the forest had already swallowed them up.

  * * * *

  They ate as they walked and they drank as they walked and they listened to the forest sounds as they walked. At one point Brenton thought to ask Tom about Myfanwy’s strange references. What fisherman? What bait? What stream? But in the end, he didn’t ask and both remained isolated in their own thoughts. When Brenton paused to orient himself, Tom also studied the surroundings, the landmarks, the angle of the shadows. When Brenton stopped to rest, Tom stopped also, but remained standing, staring about him into the forest, as if expecting a tree to say ‘How do ye do?’

  When finally, late in the afternoon, they came to the rockfall, where the wolves had been killed, the sweet musty scent of autumnal plant decay was suddenly and fiercely suppressed by the stench of rotting flesh. The ruined carcasses were there, the dull hair folding in around the little fortress of the ribs. Insects, mice, voles, badgers and hawks had all been at work, reducing them – erasing them. In the night, Brenton knew, owls would have crouched in the surrounding trees, feasting on the living that came to feast on the dead. Strange, he thought, that death – on the face of it, so repugnant and horrifying – could, at the same time, be so nourishing. It was a contradiction he’d marvelled at before, on the battlefields of France, where he’d seen men consume lives with all the glee of goats consuming leaves. He’d also found them – found himself – vomiting with horror at what they’d wrought.

  They were about to move away from the mouldering carcasses when a ghostly wail clambered between them, slapping their private contemplations into senselessness. It was a screeching voice that seemed to come from all sides at once. It echoed amongst the rocks, was split, reformed and repeated amongst the trees.

  “Brento-o-o-o-n!” it squealed. “You came ba-a-a-ack!” And then, scampering along invisible paths, there appeared before them the figure of Roger Ringworm. His head bobbed and waggled like a toy boat running the rapids, and his one-toothed grin split his face like the uncandled grin of a jack-o-lantern. “Who’s that you brought?”

  “Roger?” said Brenton, happily sharing the grin. “What ye doin’ out ‘ere in the forest, lad? Are ye alone?”

  “You betcha. Huh?” said Roger with his characteristic mix of assurance and confusion. He pointed back the way he’d come, just in time to mark the emergence of Jeremy Talbot and Silent Richard from the undergrowth. Richard was carrying a sheaf of newly cut branches, divested of leaves and twigs. Tom took instant note of the fact that both men were armed with long bows. As well, he noted, Richard also had a long-sword sheathed at his waist – one of those, he suspected, recently prised loose from Sirs Cyril and Angus. He watched closely as the two men approached and, for reasons of his own, Tom’s heart leaped in his chest and clicked its heels.

  “The boy’s a wild thing, him!” Jeremy began, dispensing altogether with greetings, as though the two parties had been travelling together all a
fternoon. “Told ‘im there’s still wolves – least the one that ran wi’ these poor beggars.” He indicated the stinking carcasses. “Rog’ don’t have enough sense to be frightened, though.” He wagged his head apologetically, as though Roger’s fearlessness was a fault he’d been told to rectify.

  “Makin’ ‘im a bow,” muttered Silent Richard, indicating the cuttings under his arm. His association with Madeleine and Anwen had impacted quite drastically it seemed, on his aversion to speech.

  “Makin’ ‘im a bow,” repeated Jeremy, with a sideways glance at Richard. “That we are.” He leaned toward Brenton and shielded his mouth. “Can’t shut the man up, these days,” he said. Then, “So ye’re back, LeGros! Ye’ll be wearin’ a rut, soon, I’ll wager! Sure enough! What wi’ Richard levellin’ acreage wi’ that great sword,” (he motioned to the bow-makings under Richard’s arm) “and you trampin’ down the undergrowth, we’ll be ‘avin’ a major ‘ighway through the district soon! Might be able to charge a toll!”

  A watcher might have noted that, through Jeremy’s speech, Richard’s focus and attention had settled heavily on Tom. By the end of the speech, (and, uncharacteristically for Jeremy, it ended as hesitantly as the last drops of wine fall from a miser’s flask) Jeremy too was staring at this new visitor to their forest domain.

  “Uh . . .that’s Tom,” said Brenton by way of introduction. “He’s come to . . . to . . . .” He shook his head, as though hoping that an explanation for Tom’s urgent need to travel into the woods might rattle into the chute that led to his tongue. None did.

  Richard and Jeremy glanced meaningfully at one another. “It’s alright, LeGros,” said Jeremy. “It’d be plain as the look on a face what interest this man . . . Tom, is it? . . . what interest Tom, ‘ere, might ‘ave in the deep forest o’ the Marches.”

  “Plain as the look,” muttered Richard, shifting the load of sticks and placing a hand on the hilt of the sword. His eyes never left Tom’s face.

  “Yes indeed,” affirmed Jeremy edgily. “Plain as the look.” He stepped close to Tom and stared up into his face. “Ye know,” he said, tapping Tom’s chest with bent fingers, “men ‘ave walked into these woods before; sometimes wi’ their pockets full o’ mischief, would ye believe? . . . Thinkin’ there was no one ‘ere to tell ‘em nay. Such men ‘ave learned sorrowful lessons. That mischief has come back to bite ‘em! Hard!”

  Brenton was at a loss to know how his companion had aroused such angry suspicion without having spoken a word. He found himself tensing against whatever action might be at hand but, to his confusion, when he looked into Tom’s face, he saw the merest whisker of a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.

  “Before mischief could bite me,” Tom smirked, tapping his own fingers on Jeremy’s chest, “it’d need more teeth in its head than you have in yours these days, Jeremy Talbot.”

  “Woooh!” crowed Roger Ringworm, throwing himself to the ground with laughter. He thrashed about like a wounded pheasant, tossing leaves in the air and howling with mirth. “No teeth!” he gasped out, his own single peg peeping joyously out of its little cave. His ruckus was massive, but only Brenton looked around at the loony boy. The others refused to risk the breaking of eye contact. However, laughter finds laughter and Roger’s unfettered joy could hardly fail to summon forth a variety of pre-smile twitchings. Jeremy’s eyes crinkled and he revealed his pink gums with the flash of an equally pink tongue between them.

  “So ye remember me, young ‘un?”

  Tom nodded, his own smile jumping with a sudden, impossible to contain emotion. “I do remember you, Jeremy. You and the talkative Richard of Wrexham. And I can’t tell you how it gladdens me, to see you both. To know that you’ve survived . . . that you’re still with him!” The smile clung bravely to his lips, like a man clinging to a cliff, but around the eyes, it was washed away by a dribble of tears. He moved forward and wrapped his arms around Jeremy.

  For a moment – a very brief moment – Jeremy’s crusty composure was stunned into stillness. Then, “Get orf! Get orf me, ye great cheeky mug!” he cried, shaking himself free. “For God’s sake, Richard! Lop away his arms wi’ your sword, man!”

  “Sorry,” said Tom, stepping back and wiping at his eyes. “Richard. I’ll not risk hugging you. But will you shake my hand?” He held it out and Richard, whose smile crinkled the area around his eyes but hardly altered his mouth, glanced at Jeremy for reassurance, let go the sword and shyly took Tom’s hand.

  Brenton’s grin was like a guttering candle – there and not there – not quite certain that it could, or should, survive in the presently confusing currents. Roger’s, on the other hand, as he’d gotten control of, and begun righting himself, was wide and certain. But for the single peg, it was an echo of Jeremy’s. No sooner was he on his feet than Roger hurled himself at, and wrapped his arms around Jeremy, in imitation of Tom’s impulsive hug.

  “Awww, now look what ye done!” Jeremy lamented, carefully unwrapping himself from the boy’s embrace. “You save that now, Roger! Save it for the girls, out behind the wood pile.”

  “Will you take me to him?” Tom inquired eagerly. “Is he well?” In his mind he was hearing the warning of Myfanwy. He will die. Soon enough. Late enough.

  “It’s a lot o’ years since we seen you, boy,” said Jeremy, all seriousness again. “You been to London, we ‘eard tell. Hob-nobbin’ with the enemy, we ‘eard tell.”

  “I have been to London, ‘tis true,” answered Tom. “And I even did a little hob-nobbing there. But never to anyone’s detriment, Jeremy. And more importantly, not with anyone who thinks of themself as an enemy any more. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Let me tell ye this for free an’ all, lad. It won’t be for you to decide who’s an enemy an’ who’s not! And jus’ to lend some comfort to ourselves on that score – you won’t take it amiss if Richard ‘angs back a little and sees to it that no . . . extra company . . . is walkin’ along behind yez, will ye now? Not all visitors is welcome in these woods.”

  “I’m glad,” said Tom happily, “to see that you still have enough sense to be wary. I guess that explains how you’ve survived!”

  * * * *

  When Roland arrived at the door behind which Anwen and Madeleine were being kept, he found Sir Cyril seated on the floor, legs out in a V, eating an oatcake and drinking a pot of small ale. Cyril scrambled to his feet and made a show of puffing himself up to threatening size. His neck was still stiff, sore and barely operative, from his fall from the horse. The small commotion drew Madeleine close to the door, where she heard Roland’s sneering voice.

  “Save the posturing, Sir,” she heard Sir Roland say. “I remind you that these prisoners escaped you once before.” (Madeleine wondered when that could have been. Or were there, perhaps, other prisoners in the keep, as well as herself and Annie?)

  The voice went on. “Have they been fed?”

  “Yes, M’Lord,” came the choked reply, obviously sprayed through the remnants of a mouthful of food.

  “Who brought it?”

  “A girl, M’Lord. Susan, she said. She said she was chambermaid to Lady Margaret and charged with keeping the prisoners . . . fed, M’Lord.”

  “And what are your instructions?”

  “Uhh. . . to remain on guard, M’Lord?”

  “And. . .?”

  “Uhh . . . to make sure they don’t escape, M’Lord?”

  There was a long pause. Madeleine pictured Sir Roland’s glacial stare, freezing the knight’s blood.

  “No harm is to come to them. Do you understand? These are not just ordinary peasants. They are important political prisoners. The girl who brought them food this morning is the only one to be allowed in. Clear?”

  An uneasy creak of leather indicated to Madeleine that the knight was digesting his instructions along with his meagre breakfast.

  “Now open the door.” A key rattled and Madeleine jumped back into the trembling arms of Anwen. They stood against the wall, clinging to o
ne another as avidly as they clung to the hope that this was all some terrible mistake and that, in the clearer light of morning, they’d be recognised for the poor peasant girls they really were. Roland was imperious, as befitted a man of his highborn station, with just enough of a show of consideration to satisfy his self delusion of chivalry. In other words, he looked down on them from a great height and flattered himself that he understood them.

  “Well!” he said. “You passed the night in comfort?”

  “Yes, thank you, Sir Roland,” said Anwen, ever mindful of her manners. “We’d like to go ‘ome now, please.”

  He looked at her as though she’d asked to be taken to visit the king of Tyrol. “Home? Down to the village, you mean? Nonsense! Whatever for? You are guests . . . in a great castle. Have you no gratitude?”

  “Yes, Sir Roland,” answered Madeleine. “Thank you for your kindness, M’Lord.” Both girls curtsied to show that their gratitude was properly grounded in awe for his great position. “But our folks’ll be worryin’. An’ there’s ever so much work to be done in the fields an’ ma’ll need help wi’ brewin’ the ale an’ there’s pork to be saltin’ down for the winter, an’ fire wood to be gatherin’ and spinnin’ the wool an . . .” She’d hoped to remind him that the labour of peasants like herself and Anwen was the mainstay of lives like his own. He wasn’t interested.

  “Be silent!” he commanded and, at that moment, a bear dancing through the room on stilts could not have prompted either to make a sound. “You are excused from your work for the moment. You’ll have time to do it later.” He smiled a smile that looked like a dog panting. “In the meantime, having had the night to think, I ask you again. If my knights were to take you to the edge of the forest, what do you think? Do you think your little animal instincts might lead you, and lead my men, to the whereabouts of this band of cowardly thieves and rebels?”