Children of Clun

  The grip on their tunics was released and Gwilym faded into the darkness, only to return and reach for them again a moment later. “Don’ get any ideas about usin’ that gate yerselves, youse! Until we know otherwise, it’s guarded on the inside. Understand? By a knight wi’ a big sword who’d turn the two o’ youse into four one-legged boys! You wait. You watch. That’s all. D’ye understand me?” He shook them lightly and they both flapped their heads up and down. He released them once again and shied off out of sight, doubtless congratulating himself on finding a spot and a task that would keep the boys occupied and out of danger.

  No sooner had he disappeared, however, than Jack saw a last, lone rider emerge from the castle’s main gate, long minutes after the others had come through. This one carried no torch. He walked his animal a short distance toward the village then seemed to allow it to drift off to the right, vaguely in their own direction. And then he stopped! Drawing Roger with him, Jack slithered backwards on his belly to the edge of the river, as he’d been told. And there, they too stopped, and waited.

  Half an hour passed. Down in the village, they could just make out the movement of torches around the houses, the bridge and the church. No one else came from the castle. The lone horseman remained so still in the darkness that, for a long while, Jack lost the ability to pick him out. When finally he did spy him again, it was by grace of a seamless glow in the sky, like a small lamp through dense linen. The cloud cover was beginning to unravel, allowing a gibbous moon an occasional bleary peep through its rents. Only in those flashes did Jack eventually catch more of the rider’s movement – dismounting, turning his own head to the sky and, finally, beginning a stealthy, steady movement toward the cart of the fortune-teller.

  In his obsession with Owain Glyndwr’s illness, it occurred to Jack that Sir Roland, for his own evil purposes, might have released an assassin into the night. And it re-occurred to him that the entire escapade this night was his own fault. His fault that Maddy and Annie had been dragged away into the forest; his fault that Jeremy was now alone inside an enemy’s castle; his fault that Silent Richard might forfeit his freedom to distract hunters from the last lair of Owain Glyndwr. It also occurred to Jack that the nearest he could come to setting things right would be to get those healing herbs for Owain. And for that, he had to ensure that Myfanwy was safe.

  “Stay here,” he whispered in Roger’s ear. “Wait for me.”

  He rose to his haunches and began to move; one lurking shadow creeping toward another.

  Chapter 34 – Prisoners

  Lady Margaret Lenthall was not a woman accustomed to surprises – particularly when the surprise involved being pounced on at her own door, wrapped in a coarse woollen cloak and squeezed up tight in a pair of masculine arms. Her startled squawk when Jeremy threw his cloak over her was ample evidence of that. Jenny Talbot’s large, rough hand being clamped over the general area of Lady Margaret’s mouth had managed to stifle that first cry. But still, Jeremy was hard pressed to keep her arms still long enough for Jenny’s voice to get through to her.

  “You mustn’t struggle, Lady Margaret! The castle’s been entered by a terrible lot o’ ruffian Welshmen! There’s slaughter everywhere! We only hide your eyes from bein’ shocked into blindness . . . by the sight of dismemberment! You mus’ be quiet now, and we’ll smuggle you safely through!”

  “Di-m-mb-m?” Lady Margaret cried before wrenching free an arm and tearing away the hand that covered her mouth. “Dismemberment? Roland . . ..?”

  “Sir Roland fights like a lion, Lady Margaret! He’ll surely win the day! But ye mus’ be quiet, Milady! Quiet an’ calm! If any o’ these wild Welsh rascals should break through an’ spy you before ye’re gotten to safety . . . I dread to think what horrors they might visit on your poor body, Milady! Think on it! An’ be still!”

  Lady Margaret’s imagination became instantly preoccupied wth those leering “horrors” and, “Oh my!” she murmured.

  To his relief, Jeremy found his captive suddenly quiescent – so much so that he couldn’t help yielding just a little of the pressure from his already exhausted arms. Just to test Lady Margaret’s level of cooperation.

  “Jenny?” squeaked Lady Margaret. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here, Lady Margaret. Are you goin’ to be still?”

  “Jenny. Who is that with their arms around me? Is it . . . one of them?”

  Jenny’s eyes met those of Jeremy, whose nod drew her attention toward the rear of the chamber. Propped on her pallet by the fire lay Susan, the chambermaid, with an expression that would have seemed unremarkable on a person who’d just seen a kitten squashed under the hoof of a dray horse. Her chin was juddering, her head bobbing and her chest heaving in a way that suggested an imminent scream of terror.

  “Yes!” Jenny barked, the combined strengths of her voice and gaze managing to secure the lock on Susan’s throat. “I fear any outburst from any of we poor women, Milady, may result in terrible doin’s!” And, unable to resist the greater impact, she added, “The arms you feel are the arms of . . . Owain Glyndwr, himself!”

  Jeremy, though startled himself by his sudden elevation in status, added his own colour to Jenny’s story. Glaring at Susan and twisting his lips in what he thought would be a suitably arrogant sneer he moved his leg, allowing the blade of the great sword to swing free. Susan’s mouth snapped closed and Jeremy, with a wink and a nod, turned back to his captive.

  Surprisingly, she seemed only to have been provoked to thoughtfulness by the news that she was in the embrace of the legendary Owain Glyndwr. She had, however, registered the twist and the movement of the leg. She’d also felt, but not recognised, the pressure of the broadsword’s hilt against her lower back and at that, still contending with the imaginary horrors that might be inflicted upon her body, she felt her knees go weak.

  “Goodness!” she quivered. “Is that a . . . ? Oh, my! I’m feeling a . . . a rather serious . . . presence!”

  She began leaning into him, like a tree that might take half an hour to topple, and Jeremy, flexing his knees in response, caused the sword hilt to push even harder into her back. Jenny, having prepared herself for panic, thought she caught the incredible hint of a giggle from under the cloak and Jeremy, now propping up instead of restraining, smiled in pleasant astonishment. If he’d known Owain’s name could instill such trust in a woman, he’d’ve been using it years ago!

  “A serious presence indeed, Milady,” he murmured warmly through toothless old gums placed close to Margaret’s ear. “Glyndwr himself, at your ear’ole. Come to invite you an’ your ol’ cook here for a wee walk wi’ me.”

  “Ohhhh, goodness! Where are you taking us, Sir? Surely . . .”, she panted lightly, “surely, you wouldn’t be planning to . . . harm . . . defenceless women?”

  “I can assure you, Lady Margaret, that your ugly ol’ cook here has nothin’ to be afeared of. An’ unless a buxom and sweet smellin’ morsel such as yerself is worried by a little chat wi’ the mighty Owain Glyndwr, ye’ve nothin’ to be afeared of neither. So. Will you come away quietly wi’ me, Lady? Or must I . . . force the issue, if you take me meanin’?”

  “Ohhhh!” Lady Margaret squirmed lightly, giving the impression that was checking her corsets. “I see I have no choice, Sir!” She drew herself up, taking only a little more responsibility for her own weight. “Must I remain under this cloak?”

  “Only for the moment, madam. All will be revealed soon enough. Now, if you’ll gi’ me your word as the fine lady that ye are, I’ll guide ye by your ‘and alone, an’ see ye safely removed from ‘ere.”

  * * * *

  Elsewhere in the castle, Anwen, Maude and Madeleine, together again and supporting the great frame of Brenton LeGros, like Lady Margaret, were also tip-toeing into the unknown. Down the cold stone stair toward the kitchens, they’d gone, hoping from there to cross the shadowy expanse of the bailey and make their way to the postern gate that Jenny Talbot had described to them – the same one Gwilym
had described to Jack and Roger.

  “Ye’ll never get out the main gate!” she’d promised them. “But if, by some miracle, the postern’s unguarded, ye’ll have a chance!”

  Fortunately for the group, Madeleine had taken on the task of scouting ahead, hoping to avert any unexpected encounters. Fortunately because, near the kitchens, a shadowy figure appeared suddenly, moving quickly between cones of light from the torches. Despite her wariness, a small startled cry escaped her and in the same instant, she stumbled on the true depth of their predicament. Her instinct was to flee – to disappear into the dark corridors of the castle. But to do that, she must abandon Brenton, who had fought for them, and Maude, who had come back for them, and Annie, whose unexpected ferocity had felled the terrible Sir Cyril. What choice did she really have?

  “Good even’, Sir!” she squawked, shrill and over-loud.

  “What the Devil!” Samuel Rowe barked, startled.

  He’d been far away in his mind, walking a circuit of perils that he’d already walked many times that day. Obvious to him had been the fact that the doltish Lenthall, standing like a tourist on the curtain wall, had no concept of defending a castle. Rowe, on the other hand, knew from long experience that the devil could be counted on to lurk in the details. And Owain Glyndwr was the nearest thing to the devil that he could imagine.

  His last stop had been the postern gate where he’d ensured that a trustworthy knight – one who was known to him – was on guard.

  “What are you doing wandering about?” he snapped. “Don’t you know the castle’s in danger? Get back to your quarters!”

  “Yes Mister Rowe!” she answered, pronouncing his name with emphatic clarity and volume. The title of ‘Mister’ rankled with Samuel Rowe. He had tried to educate the peasants (his peasants, he liked to think) to address him as ‘Milord’, but they were, it was obvious, a stubbornly ignorant lot.

  “‘Milord’!” he barked. “You refer to me as ‘Milord’! And why are you shouting? I’m standing right in front of you, you stupid girl!” He bent closer to her, as though to smell her, then grabbed her arm and turned her to the light. “You!” he croaked in surprise. “You’re one of the prisoners! What the . . . ?”

  “Yes Mr Rowe – I mean, Milord! I . . . The knight has sent me, Milord . . . to the kitchen! He says he’s loose in the guts an’ needs bread an’ ale an’ I’m to fetch it for him! He says I’m to fetch it straight away or he’ll kill my sister an’ he’ll kill her anyhow if I’m too long! Please, Milord! I’m to get it! I’m frightened what he’ll do to us, Milord! Frightened for my sister!”

  The lie had leapt fully formed to her lips. She wondered how Father Reginald would deal with her at next confession – lying to a member of the nobility. Well, almost a member of the nobility.

  “Gah!” Rowe snorted. “Loose in the guts? The castle practically under siege and he’s releasing prisoners to fetch bread? More like, he wanted some time alone with the little blond one, I’d wager!” He sneered at her with a serious level of disgust. “Well, we’ll see about that! Got to keep our little prisoners safe, we do! And whole! And properly guarded! Sheriff’ll be here any day now, I think! Haul you both off to Shrewsbury! Wouldn’t want you to miss that little pleasure now, would we?” He gripped her arm. “Come along, We’ll fix this now!”

  “Please, your Lordship!” Madeleine cried, her mind awhirl. If Rowe were to discover Sir Cyril now, they would never escape the castle. “I did notice the knight were coughin’ an’ coughin’! Fit to die, it was! As I come down the stairs. Didn’ seem like he wanted to hurt anyone – only that he’s sick! I guess he won’t want to hurt us if I fetch him what he wants! If you wanted to save yourself the climb, I mean!”

  “Save myself the climb?” Rowe twisted her arm savagely. “Why would you want to save me the climb, eh? What are you up to?” He leaned his face in close to hers and his nose twitched suspiciously.

  “Nuh . . . !” Madeleine began to protest before he cut her off, shaking her the way a housewife might shake a grub off a cabbage leaf.

  “Save it!” he commanded. “I’m too busy for this!” He pushed her with both hands and she staggered back, toward the recess where Maude, Anwen and Brenton were hidden. “Get yourself back upstairs! Tell that fool of a knight I sent you back! And don’ think to do anything smart, like try to run away! No one can get out of this castle without my knowing, understand? So you do exactly what I tell you! An’ be thankful I don’t whip the arse off you right now!”

  Of a sudden, Rowe stopped, lifted his head and wrinkled his nose. His hands froze in mid-air, his eyes became distant and his mouth hung agape. He was like a stag, put on its guard by a distant sound in the forest.

  “What’s that?” he demanded.

  Madeleine gaped at him with incomprehension. She’d heard – could hear – nothing.

  “Something’s wrong!” he said softly. “Something’s . . . !” Then, “Ohhh, no! Thomas-Thomas-Thomas!” he cried. “What have they done?” He gripped Madeleine’s arm and, for the first time in her life, she looked into the eyes of someone who, she was certain, was mad. “What have you done?” he cried. “What have you . . .?”

  He turned and, pulling Madeleine behind him, began to run. He ran back through the wide kitchen, with its chopping blocks and iron pots and always-warm ovens. No one was there for Madeleine to call out to. She tripped, stumbled, fell against tables and knocked stools flying, but Rowe’s grip never weakened. She tried to grasp a carving knife but lost both it and her footing, her one free arm becoming the crutch that kept her half-way on her feet. He dragged her, tearing flesh from her knees, heels and palm until, finally, they reached the door to the outside. Rowe threw it open without hesitation and only then did he stop, shivering in stunned silence.

  In the confined space of the courtyard, a black frenzy of house-sized shadow horses was whipping around the walls. Horses rearing, horses whinnying, horses galloping, horses falling. Amongst them were the vast shadow figures of men – running, diving for reins, calling out names and screaming for calm. And dominating all that furious fuss and noise was an incredible density of smoke – the eye-stinging, nose-burning foulness of a fire struggling for life.

  It was clawing frantically at a massive stack of new hay, slamming great grey fists of smoke into a makeshift roof of planks. Gouts of flame flared and flickered, rose, died and rose again, like spirits fighting to escape a hellish brimstone. The village’s All Hallows bonefire had not been lit but here, in the confines of the castle’s courtyard, amongst the stables, the kennels, the granaries, the hutches for rabbits and the cotes for pigeons, the storage sheds and the artisan quarters, fire was taking hold.

  Rowe yanked Madeleine to her feet, placing one crushing grip on the nape of her neck, the other on her arm. “You’ve done this!” He snarled into her ear. “You and your . . . villagers! I’ll see you all in Hell for this!”

  He hurled her, tumbling and spinning, out into the yard. And suddenly, like the fire itself, Madeleine was in a fight for life.

  She rolled, twisted, cried out with the impact. She spun frantically to see where he was and he was there, striding after her, his eyes like black holes. He aimed a kick at her and she skittered backward. Above him, on the stone wall, the shadow horses reared. He was intent on killing her; of that there was no doubt. It was an instant Madeleine would remember for all of her long life – an instant in which she would have lit fires, killed strangers, climbed over the bodies of her loved ones. Anything, for life. She was on her back, looking up at a man whose sole wish, at that moment in time, was for her death!

  And suddenly, the shadow horse that was rearing was not a shadow at all, but a real horse, mountainously tall on its hind legs, its front hooves raking the air high above her, high above even Rowe’s head. She saw its chest, carved with muscle, criss-crossed with leather harness. She saw its long neck, its chiselled jaw, its head arced toward the sky. Beyond it, in the incredible clarity of the moment, she even saw the br
iefest glimpse of the moon breaking through the clouds. And in her mind, a thought popped up, like a rabbit stretching tall in long grass. The thought said, ‘This is where you finish!’

  And then, her struggle for life, in the last hours of All Hallows Eve, 1421, ended as the sky toppled from its mooring and landed exactly where she lay, in the courtyard of Clun Castle.

  Chapter 34 – Escapes: Successful and Unsuccessful

  Elizabeth Douglas and her two companions were no longer safe in Clun Castle. Sir Roland’s recent actions had made that abundantly clear. The plan hatched quickly by Sir Angus and the de Coucys during their chance meeting on the wall had therefore focussed on aiding their immediate escape. Mostly what was needed, Angus had declared, were speed, horses and fearless resolve!

  “And luck!” Sir Perceval had added. “To help overcome the ‘ifs’!”

  If, somehow, the watching soldiers could be distracted – if the easily recognised women could slip, unnoticed, to the gate – if one of the men could get the gate opened at the right time – if they could actually find enough horses to carry them all; then they might be successful. It was Angus who, left on his own to devise the distraction, had settled on fire.

  Elizabeth, Annabel and Effemy, dressed in mannish riding clothes, had been lurking for too long at the top of an outer staircase, watching the soldiers moving between patches of torchlight on the wall, not knowing what to expect. At the first cry of ‘Fire!’, however, Elizabeth started down the stairs.

  “Too soon! Too soon!” Effemy pled. “We’ll be seen!”

  “We have to risk it, Feem!” Elizabeth insisted. “This may be our only chance! I don’t know what Angus has done but, if they get it under control quickly and we’re still inside, it’ll all be wasted! Come on! If we’re stopped, we’ll say we smelled the smoke!”