Children of Clun

  Whatever the reason, their unquestioning assumption was that she would be thrilled at the chance to join them. They were, they declared, going to steal their own horses! They’d abandon everything that couldn’t easily be carried and, once out of the castle, they’d link up with Elizabeth Douglas, Effemy, Annabel and Sir Angus. Then the seven of them – eight with Maude – would disappear into the forest! Be gone before Sir Roland thought to look for them!

  “Not that he’d dare, of course, to interfere with my personal safety!” declared Joan, though even she appeared to be losing faith in the unassailability of her position. “Not truly! I would inform the king and have him clapped instantly into the most horrible of dungeons!”

  “Yes, yes,” Marie countered. “But if his spies have discovered the connection between you and Elizabeth Douglas . . . and your plans for James Stewart . . . perhaps that is information that King Henry will value even more! Perhaps for that knowledge, he would want to thank Sir Roland!”

  Joan tossed her head and tried to look dismissive, but she had no words.

  By the time they were back in their chambers, Maude’s heart was beating like a flag in a high wind. She watched Joan throw together light travelling cases, selecting this and throwing aside that in a frenzy of excitement.

  “It is a great adventure for her,” Marie whispered to Maude. “She thinks the king is in her pocket.”

  And a moment later, responding to an outburst of laughter, she said to Joan, “Softly, Milady! We are not free yet!”

  Neither of the noble women considered for a moment that Maude would not want to come with them. Who, after all, in their right mind, would choose dreary Shropshire over a great city and a royal court? Who would not simply die of joy for such fabulous companions and such a thrilling adventure?

  Those things, however, meant nothing to Maude. There might be a golden world somewhere, but she had no desire to be part of it – especially not while Madeleine and Anwen’s futures were as promising as those of tadpoles in a muddy puddle under a tree full of kingfishers! And so Maude, in the most daring act she’d ever committed, prepared an argument which, she swore she would defend to the death; if need be, with the stolen dagger that she slipped under her blouse.

  “I have to help my sisters!” she then stammered. “I can’t leave them!”

  For a moment, both girls were stilled by astonishment.

  “No, Maude!” Joan proclaimed. “Your sisters are prisoners of a powerful knight! And you’re a girl! Alone! All you could do is put yourself in even worse danger than them! You can’t change anything!”

  “You don’ understand! Things’ve already changed!”

  Of all the impulses people have, one of the least utilised is the impulse to look inside themselves for strength. But that’s where Maude, the most timid of children, finally looked. She looked first for any residue of the calm reassurance that – especially of late – at odd times had come bubbling up out of nowhere in her mind. It had been there in the voice – the ‘other’ who seemed, at times, to speak to her from within. The voice wasn’t there. But to her surprise, some strength of her own was!

  “I know I can’t put things back! But my sisters need me! I always been the one they looked after but now . . . that’s what we have to know, see? That we gotta always be ready! ‘Cause it’s all shiftin’ around us! All the time!”

  Joan was about to argue further but was over-ruled by Marie.

  “Maude,” she said softly. “There is a legend in my country, that in the time of need, a peasant girl will appear, to deliver us.” She smiled at the irony. “Many people think, ‘A girl? A peasant? She would be helpless!’ But I . . . I see no reason why she should be helpless!” She sighed. “To believe is the key, n’est ce pas? To believe and to try! Can you find your way to them, Maude?”

  Joan’s forehead wrinkled deeply.

  “Marie!” she insisted, stamping her foot. “No! What are you saying? She must come with us! Maude, listen to me! Your life can be so different! Don’t throw it away on a something that’s . . . beyond your control!”

  Maude’s feet again were waiting for instructions, waiting to rush her away. Her hand, though, brushed the dagger under her blouse and Marie, sensing the movement and the passing of essential time, finished softly, “The choice is yours, Maude. But you must make it quickly, I think!”

  “I know! And I can’t . . . ! There’s something . . . something . . . I don’ know!”

  Joan’s hands went to her hips. “That’s exactly the point, Maude! You don’t know! But I do! We do! Marie and I both! There is nothing for you here! It’s mad to think there ever will be anything for you here!”

  “Maybe not so, Joan!” Marie countered. “Maybe it is us who don’t know, eh? After all, for a poor peasant girl to challenge the will of a Marcher Lord! That is something, non! Even your uncle the big king would admire such courage, I think! Mad or no! And I too! Maude, if you must go, you must go! In fact, if you wish it, I will go with you.”

  Joan’s mouth fell open. “Go with her?” she stammered. “Marie, what’re you saying? Sir Perceval! Sir Angus! Elizabeth Douglas! What’ll . . . ?” Marie waved her to a halt.

  “Perceval will understand. We only need to remain alive until he finds us, eh Maude?” With the tip of a finger, she reached and touched Maude’s hidden dagger. And to Joan she said, “In my country’s legend, our peasant girl defeats mighty armies! Maude and me together, we would be two girls! What hope for Roland’s little band of frightened knights, eh? Poof! Nothing! He will learn a new thing! And us! A new and exciting time, yes?”

  During this speech, she’d moved to Maude’s side, leaving Joan isolated and speechless. And Maude, looking to see Joan’s reaction, found an image reviving in her mind. It was the image she’d seen that first day, of Joan with the crown-like ribbons in her hair! Had they been only ribbons? Perhaps. But perhaps not! And that was the something that she hadn’t known – hadn’t been able to grasp. That Joan and her choices were far more central to the happenings at Clun than even she was aware.

  “No!” she said with a brand new firmness, stepping away from Marie. “No, you have to stay with Lady Joan! She has to . . .! She has to . . . !”

  She didn’t know what. There was no ‘other’ voice guiding her now. This was her own vision – her own voice – and she was unsure how to use it. There was a moment’s pause before Marie nodded.

  “Bien! So be it! One thing, though! Sir Cyril! If he is back from his . . . squits! He is very dangerous, Maude! Expect no mercy from him!”

  Maude’s memory of the burly, stinking man – the last time she’d seen him, he was pissing on the floor in the Great Hall – made her stomach flip-flop and she clutched through her blouse at the blade that tingled cold against her skin. She was almost out the door when her voice found itself, causing her to speak back over her shoulder, mouthing words that made no sense, even to her.

  “The girl in the legend,” she said. “She’s very little . . . so little. There’s a fairy tree.”

  * * * *

  The sound built as Maude mounted the last flight of stairs. Roars of rage, great guttural blasts of terrible curses and the groan of flesh against stone bounced down the stairs, ricocheting off the walls, passing her like fleeing goblins. She fought her way through them until, half-way up, she crumpled to her knees. She’d just abandoned her one offer of help. But it was Maddie and Annie up there! And one other voice, now that she listened, that carried a faintly familiar timbre! She couldn’t let herself be stopped! What little she could do, she must do! And so, holding the dagger awkwardly out at arm’s length, her heart in her mouth, she rose and forced herself on. A mouse with a thorn would have been equally as dangerous.

  The hall at the top of the stairs was lit by two torches, one at the far end and one at the near. Maude leaned far forward and curled the edge of an eye around the corner. The blaze of sound – the howling, scraping, slapping, screaming clatter of it – was so overwhelming tha
t her eye almost refused to open. But when it did, it showed her a huge convulsing creature, all arms and legs and backs, thumping, kicking and twisting, hammering and yammering in a frenzy of violence.

  To say that Maude was frightened would be like saying that water is cool in January. Maude was petrified! Maude was a frozen lake! She was an icicle hanging from an eave in an arctic wind. She was a sparrow with its claws frosted solid on a branch, awaiting the one last heartbeat allotted to its entire existence. But, having once peered into that hall, she could not have fled! Not even if the monster had stood up on its many legs and arms and begun limping toward her.

  She ducked back, drew a breath and peeped again, just in time to witness the shocking sight of the creature, with a huge convulsion, tearing itself in two. Part of it reared up, swaying and panting like a massive troll, its leather coated, humped back turned to her. It swung its head, looking from side to side and Maude saw, in the torch’s dim light, that it was Sir Cyril Halftree – clearly over the squits and back on duty. The half that remained prostrate on the floor also heaved and gasped but it was far the more wounded half. Its breathing sounded like a torn bellows. Too damaged to escape the danger that now hovered over it, it dragged itself piteously, moaning and groaning, clutching at its body, toward the door behind which Madeleine and Anwen could now be heard, crying and screaming. That wounded half, Maude saw, was Brenton LeGros.

  She had no time to think! Sir Cyril stepped back from Brenton and, though his eyes remained locked on Brenton for the moment, his body turned toward her. She ducked back again, trembling with terror. ‘Run! Run!’ her mind was screaming but this time it was her knees that revolted. 'No use! No use!’

  She raised the dagger in her two hands, clutching it like a prayer candle, allowing the point of it to hover an inch from her eyes. And around the corner, only a yard or two from her shoulder, another point of steel skirled a vicious song against the stone. Sir Cyril’s sword! She’d seen it, lying on the floor where he must have dropped it in the initial struggle. He dragged it now and, as though his wolfish face was at her ear, she heard him growl deep in his throat before spitting copiously. A tooth bounced on the step in front of her.

  “A brave try, boy!” he snarled, and she knew that, so far, she was undiscovered. “But you’re in the wrong place, with the wrong man! At the wrong time.”

  The point of the sword screeched and she knew it was being dragged back toward Brenton. A long, drawn-out cry. Maude twisted and forced herself to peep once again.

  “After the day I’ve had . . .” Cyril was saying. But instead of finishing, he slammed the hilt of his sword against the door behind which Madeleine and Anwen continued to wail. “SHUT YOUR NOISE!” he bellowed. And their howlings immediately subsided to whimpers.

  Cyril spread his legs and braced himself, hoisting the blade onto his shoulder. He looked like a man about to stun a calf with a hammer.

  “As I was saying,” he continued through the mash of blood in his mouth. “Wrong day. Wrong man!” He swung the sword, almost playfully, allowing it to hum above Brenton’s head.

  * * * *

  That was the moment when Maude’s legs, ever unpredictable, decided to hurl her into the hall; and her voice, without so much as checking the sense of it with her, screamed, “STOP!” Her two hands, trembling like leaves, as though they could frighten one of the king’s soldiers, clutched the stolen dagger between them.

  He looked over his shoulder, blood dripping from his jowls, his sword coming casually to rest on his other shoulder. There was not an ounce of fear in him. Surprise, and a flash of interest; but no fear. In fact, when he saw who it was and that she was alone, a dreadful smile crossed his face. In the bloody gap of it, Maude could see the space recently vacated by the tooth on the stairs. And she thought to herself, Lady Joan was right! This is mad and hopeless! Still, what could she do but brazen it out?

  “Sir Roland sent me!” she croaked, her voice quaking uncontrollably. “The castle’s under attack, ‘e says! He says . . . ye’re to report to the gate! Now!”

  “Sorry?” he said softly, his ghoulish smile widening. “I’m to what? You’ll have to speak up, little mistress! Or come closer.” He smirked, with all the unction of a devil inviting a priest to lay down his cross. “Am I not to guard the prisoners any longer then?”

  Even Cyril knew better than this. It’s always unwise to take your eye off an enemy. Unwise even to blink! But, he was thinking to himself: the big lad is beaten! And a pretty little red-haired girl is teasing me with a knife! Telling me stories that she’s made up! That’s lovely! A man to kill and a dagger-wielding girl to tame! The day is looking up!

  In other words, he let himself be distracted. He let his fantasy intrude on the business at hand. Otherwise he would not have stood there, so arrogantly vulnerable, while Brenton mustered what little strength he had left. He would not have maintained that legs apart stance. And he would not have suffered the inexpressible agony of having a powerful fist impact with his testicles. A blow that instantly transformed him from a victorious warrior into a flailing, gagging heap of agony. His legs vanished from under him, he crumpled and, well before the sword came clattering down, the beast of many legs and arms – the one that Maude had first seen – was reassembled on the floor; again rolling, bleating and battering its way across the floor.

  This time, when Maude’s mind screeched, ‘Fetch Sir Perceval!’ her knees and legs were braver. ‘Right you are!’ they answered and they swept her off down the stairs, two steps at a time.

  * * * *

  She would not have found him, of course, since he, at that very moment, was riding calmly out the gate. Like nearly everyone else in the castle, his focus was so intently on the darkness outside that the darkness within was entirely beyond his notice. There was, however, unexpected help at hand.

  Just two flights down, in fact, on the floor occupied by Sir Roland and Lady Margaret, Maude bowled into two figures. They’d been creeping along in the light of a tallow candle and, partly to save themselves from injury, they caught and held her. One was Jenny Talbot. The other, Maude took time to notice, was a small ancient man who she’d never seen before. She drew just enough breath to begin squalling.

  “Brenton! He’s killing Brenton!”

  Jeremy Talbot placed a dry, callused and unexpectedly calming hand on her arm. “Brenton?” he said. “Big bloke Brenton? From the village?”

  Maude’s nod was little more than a rapid up and down shudder and Jenny Talbot said, “It’ll be Sir Cyril he’s run into up there! One o’ them you met in the forest a week ago.”

  Jeremy shook his head sadly and Jenny clutched at him, knowing his ancient body would be no match for Cyril’s.

  “He’s hurt!” Maude sobbed. “I don’ think ‘e can get up!”

  “An’ I suppose that’s where Annie and Maddie are?” Jeremy asked. “Up there?” Both nodded and Jeremy shook his head again. “Fool of a boy! That’s where love gets ye, ye see? You women! Tsk!” And he began moving to the stairwell.

  “Jeremy?” said Jenny softly.

  “Now don’t start at me, sister! The boy’s been through enough already!”

  “Jeremy! It’s a young man there! A knight! A trained, experienced killer! Ye may not be able to help!”

  Jeremy looked at her, looked at the stairs, looked at Maude.

  “Right! Right! Yer prob’ly right. Best to have a look, though. Whyn’t you two wait ‘ere.”

  He turned to go, but Jenny stopped him again, with an arm on his shoulder.

  “I’m going to be cranky, Jeremy, if I lose you so soon after findin’ ye.”

  Jeremy’s toothless smile was tender. “Thank ye, sister. For that gentle thought. Tell ye what, then. I’ll just have a wee chat wi’ the man. And come straight back. How ‘bout that?”

  Maude and Jenny followed him up one flight of stairs and stopped at the bottom of the next. Imagine the sounds a man might make while trying to lift his horse out of sucking mud
. That was the only sound left to roll like agony down toward them. Jenny and Maude glanced at one another over the light of the candle and, together followed on up the stairs.

  Jeremy was not used to stairs. At the top, he drew a deep breath, shook what stiffness he could out of his knees and, forcing as much spring into his step as he could, entered the hall. Just in time to witness an execution. Credit the burning committment of Sir Cyril to destruction. For all the damage Brenton had inflicted on him, he was back on his feet, back in charge of his sword and once again on the verge of skewering hapless Brenton.

  “What’s this then?” Jeremy barked, like a schoolmaster catching a delinquent boy torturing a frog. “Are ye after drinkin’ from the poor man’s stream again, young knight?”

  Cyril’s back was to Jeremy. He didn’t turn, perhaps having learned his lesson from the blow he’d received when Maude distracted him. But he did raise his head in a manner that even Jeremy could see was thoughtful. He was trying to place that voice. Then he nodded and looked back down at Brenton. He stepped forward and kicked Brenton mightily. Ribs could be heard snapping.

  Still not looking back at Jeremy, Cyril snarled, “What? No arrows in my back, old man?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Jeremy answered, as jauntily as a juggler in a tavern. “Jus’ come for me young friend there, I have. So if ye’re finished, now, puttin’ the boots into the man, who looks to be pretty nearly senseless as it is, well . . . I’ll jus’ take him off away wi’ me.” He began to walk forward.

  It was then that Cyril half turned, twisting his head as far as he was able – just enough to get Jeremy into the corner of his eye. “Oh well!” he said with expansive sarcasm. “Being as you’re a friend! I wouldn’t dream of stopping you from sharing . . .” (his sword looped up, cutting a great arc through the air) “. . . his death!”

  Many swords had been swung at Jeremy over the years but only rarely had one caught him. He ducked his head and the blade passed a hair’s breadth over, though it continued on with incredible speed and control, like a falcon turning for a second pass. Cyril’s training told him that a man dodging one stroke generally retreated; an act which, if properly anticipated, could be halted with a quick second stroke. Instinctively, then, he turned the blade in a full circle over his head and, bringing it powerfully down, lunged forward.