Children of Clun

  “What’s he blathering about?” Branwen muttered through Maude’s fingers, getting in return only a warning frown and a silently mouthed Listen!

  “Three of you out now! Quick quick!” Davey chattered as he bumbled about in the tack room, rattling harness and searching saddle bags. “Look lively, fat lazies! Who’s set for a journey, then? No no! No back-chat if you please! Sir Roland’s orders is all I can tell you! Me, Hubert an’ Father Reginald! ‘At’s all I can tell you! Secret secret! Off to London, ‘at’s all I can tell you! Take a message to the king! Very dangerous adventure, I don’t doubt, so no cowardies, please!”

  Maude and Branwen peeped from their stall. Davey was there in the walkway, his head nodding like a reed in a fast flowing stream. “Oh yes!” he was crowing. “Wind’s up! Storm’s a-brewing!” He stopped, suddenly still, and cocked his ear to listen to the wind outside. For a moment there was quiet, as though it had paused with its own ear to the door, to listen back. Then it sent a draughty finger into the stable, flicked the straw at his feet and seemed almost to dare him to come out.

  Branwen could stand it no longer. No one with half a thought would trust Lazy Davey – or, for that matter, Father Reginald or Hubert – to carry a message. Not even from one room to the next, let alone to London! Let alone to the king? The cheeky fool, she thought. He’s been dipping into the cider barrel! She burst from the stall.

  “Davey Dodd! What’re you jabberin’ about? Are you gone daft?”

  The shout startled him first into stillness and then into defiance.

  “You heard! Important business is what I’m about! For Sir Roland! Nothin’ girls’d understand! So why’n’t you two jus’ get back to yer stupid work an’ not be botherin’ yer stupid heads! What’re youse doin’, lurkin’ about in my stable, anyhow? Youse ought to be in the kitchen, scourin’ pots!” His nose-wrinkling sarcasm was almost enough to draw Maude out of her funk.

  “Why you wanna be sayin’ things like that, Davey? Mrs Talbot put us to workin’ here an’ she got every right! An’ it in’t your stable, neither!”

  “Thinks he’s better’n us,” Branwen sneered, turning her back on Davey. “An’ him the biggest liar in the village. As if Sir Roland’d let out three horses! To Father Reginald, for one, who never rode nothin’ bigger’n a donkey! An’ is better yet on his own two feet! An’ horses for two boys who’ve barely learned to wipe their bums, let alone look after proper animals? For a long journey, is it? With storms coming down from the northern mountains? Is that what you’re saying then, Davey Duck-brain? Have I got that right?”

  Maude and Branwen saw Davey’s head fall finally still and could almost hear the “gulp” as he tried to swallow. There was a moment of stillness and he nodded a single nod.

  “An’ ye don’ think someone could be havin’ a lend of ye, do ye?” Branwen’s voice was so low and laden with disdain, it virtually had to crawl the distance between them. “Ye oughta stick to kissin’ Mister Rowe’s bum, Davey! Not listenin’ to what it says to ye, ye big fart-sniffer! Stop your dreamin’, why doncha?”

  Davey knew he had no defences against the verbal barbs of girls. Happily for him, though, before a whimper could escape him, Father Reginald arrived and salvaged his pride. The Father, almost as breathless as Davey had been, spluttered out his need for access to the buttery.

  “Cheeses! Lots of cheeses!”

  Hubert, he puffed, was off at the kitchen, commandeering supplies of bread and wine. And, Yes, he answered Maude’s question: they were being sent with a message to the King, though what it was about (tapping the side of his nose) he wasn’t at liberty to say. And, yes (they could check with Sir Roland if they felt nervy enough) they’d truly been told to borrow what mounts might be available. Davey made a wry, told-you-so face and rattled a fistful of harness, but Father Reginald, looking up at the high horsey rumps, mused that, for himself, he might prefer his own donkey.

  As he was speaking, Branwen glared jealously at Davey but Maude’s focus fell away into some invisibly distant spot. She only faintly heard Branwen saying to the priest, “Maybe you should find a sheep for little Davey to ride!” and she followed wholly by instinct when Branwen snatched at her sleeve. What she was seeing was her own formless certainty that those three would never get to meet the king. Or even to see London.

  Chapter 10 – The Scottish Connection

  At that very moment of parting, dangerous information was about to be exchanged high in the castle’s keep – information that would influence affairs in two kingdoms. Lady Joan had been invited to a private meeting with Mary Gordon and the ladies Annabel and Effemy. Talk had begun with a tense politeness – the change in the weather, their recent journeys, the comforts of their accommodation in Clun castle. But then the talk became serious.

  “Lady Joan,” Mary Gordon began, “we are about to place ourselves – our safety – perhaps our very lives – in your hands. You see, we know that you are here . . . by special invitation!”

  Joan cocked her head. Her smile, already faint, faded to an expression of puzzled bemusement and travelled straight on into a blushing mask of confusion.

  “There’s no need to be frightened,” Mary continued. “Because what I have to tell you is that . . . we, also, are not . . . accidental . . . visitors to Clun.”

  The mention of fear alone was enough to put a rod in Joan’s back. Coupled with Perceval’s plea for care, it caused her to become instantly elusive.

  “I’m not certain I know what you mean, madam! Being little more than a child, you see! I fear you’ll have to speak more plainly!”

  She managed to construct a ramshackle smile that she hoped would disguise the thrill this turn had planted in her heart. In fact, she was sure she did know what was meant – sure and terrified and excited, all at once, that this might be the moment she’d been anticipating for so long.

  She remembered clearly the night the message had appeared in her bedchamber in the court at London.

  “Find reason to travel to Shrewsbury for Saint Crispin’s Day,” it had said. “At Castle Clun, you will hear news to your advantage. Tell no one of this message. Scotland’s rightful king will thank you.” And it was signed, “A Friend in Trust.”

  “Very well,” Mary Gordon replied, drawing a deep breath. “I will speak plainly. We have come to Clun with the express purpose of meeting you, Lady Joan. To speak to you” (she glanced at her friends, deciding at last to risk all) “about love. And destiny. And kings!”

  Joan’s mouth opened but her breath was stopped in her throat. Kings! Plural! So this was truly it, then! Only the most stealthy and political of observers would know that she was in the very privileged position of knowing and loving two kings. One was her uncle, King Henry V of England, who she loved in the way that a fatherless girl loves a kind protector – earnestly, gratefully and thoughtfully. The other was the long-suffering ‘guest’ of the English court, James Stewart – acknowledged, but uncrowned, as the rightful king of Scotland. And him, she loved passionately, secretly, and too recklessly by half. So this was, indeed, what she’d come for!

  “I think, from your expression, Lady Joan,” said Mary, “that you know now what I’m speaking about. And if that’s true, then I expect you could go on to guess why we have . . . ‘happened’ upon you . . . here in Clun. And why our lives are now in your hands.”

  * * * *

  James Stewart. Captured by pirates as a boy, delivered into the English court, held in limbo – the murderous uncle who’d been responsible for his flight, content to leave him in enemy hands. Years had passed. James had grown into splendid manhood and, ultimately, inevitably, his captors had ceased to see him as a king in exile. Instead, he’d become, simply, the charming, intelligent and witty guest who never went home. The question of returning to Scotland had fallen, it seemed, even out of his own mind. Then he had met Joan de Beaufort!

  Loyal Scottish spies in the English court – spies whose allegiances even James did not suspect – had fo
und sudden hope. To their minds, James had a throne to reclaim, an usuper to deal with and responsibilities to take up. They had searched long and hard for some incentive – something that would spur him into making an escape and reclaiming his birthright! And finally . . . what better tool to break the silken bond of the English court than the even silkier bond of love?

  And so, a plan had been hatched. Her love would be tested and her own ambitions prodded. If she responded as hoped, maybe she would be bold enough to whisper in James’s ear! To assure him that the people of Scotland had not forgotten him! To remind him that his uncle, the Duke of Albany, held the throne by treachery! To point out how easy it could be to reclaim it. Maybe he would cease to be a guest in a foreign house and become master in his own.

  * * * *

  “The message was from you?” Joan finally managed to gasp. She drew forth a crisp paper and read aloud the note, though she’d memorised it forty readings ago.

  “ ‘Find reason to travel to Shrewsbury for Saint Crispin’s Day. At Clun Castle,’ she glanced up at them in wonder, ‘you will hear news to your advantage! Tell no one of this message. Scotland’s rightful king will thank you. A Friend in Trust’. ‘A Friend in Trust’ is you?”

  Mary nodded but Effemy’s trust was more grudgingly given. “What does it mean to you, Milady, when it says `Scotland’s rightful king’? Who do you suppose that to be?”

  “Why it’s James Stewart, of course!” Joan answered without hesitation. “Everyone knows that!”

  The three Scottish girls looked at one another, then back to Joan. “What everyone knows in London might be different from what everyone knows in Edinburgh,” said Annabel. “Or even here in the Welsh Marches! James has been long away from home and the Duke of Albany, his uncle, would as soon see him dead.”

  Mary added, “But now the Duke himself is dying. Even so, his spies are everywhere throughout the kingdom. No doubt King Henry’s are, as well. So you must absolutely know how much danger we put ourselves in – how much you put yourself in, Lady Joan – if we speak more of this! For all we know, treachery is already afoot! The knight who travelled with us to this place – Sir Angus – is missing. Like your Sir Cyril! We have no idea where or how. I only tell you this because I don’t want to mislead you! We three risk all to help Scotland – a country to which you have no natural allegiance!”

  Joan’s lips compressed into a thin line, like those of a person who has fallen embarassingly in the public street and struggles to rise. “You’re right! The king does have spies throughout England – and probably Scotland, as well! But . . . I am here. And I assure you, I’d risk whatever needed to be risked – to help James Stewart.”

  “But,” she went on to say, “you should know that your cause is lost already! He won’t go! I’ve asked him – asked him why, with all the freedom he’s given – why he hasn’t simply turned his horse’s head toward Edinburgh and ridden away!”

  “I’m trusted to stay!” he says. “If I repaid trust with treachery – how unworthy a king would I be!”

  His personal knight’s honour, he had assured her, was worth more to him than a mere kingdom! No! He must continue his exile in London.

  “Hmph!” Mary said wryly. “Men! You know, sixty years ago, another king became such a ‘guest’ in the English court. King Jean of France. The Black Prince captured him at Poitiers, surrounded by slaughtered knights who’d tried to protect him. Four years – that’s how long Jean spent in the English court. Still a king, mind you – always a king. But a king in exile. When the ransom details were worked out, he went home. But did he stay there? No! And why not? Because his countrymen dilly-dallied over paying the fee, causing him, in the name of his ‘honour’, to mount his horse and return to England! Where he died! Knight’s honour indeed! I wonder if that was really what his people needed from him!” She wagged her head in genuine bemusement. “Who can understand a man?”

  Annabel said, “It’s no secret that men are prisoners to their pride. It’s the one thing they think needs no explaining. But we women know they can be made prisoners to many other things, as well. So let us think as women. James is a great ship, becalmed in a foreign port. What would persuade him to unfurl his sails?”

  “A little wind,” Effemy said softly. “He requires a little wind . . . in his ear. And that wind must not ask him! It must tell him! It must say, ‘If you insist on being a prisoner, James Stewart, be a prisoner to your destiny. Be what you were born to be! Nothing less! Begone from this place.’ Lady Joan, we can help you make a plan.”

  Joan drew a deep breath and composed herself to listen, wondering if her uncle the king, or even James himself, would ever forgive her. The Scottish girls, in defiance of all good sense, went on to reveal secrets that were better left unsaid. Most particularly because, moments earlier, a small, keen ear had drifted to a halt against the thick wood of their door.

  * * * *

  The listening ear was on the half-empty head of none other than Lady Margaret’s overly encouraged chambermaid Susan who, within the hour, had subjected Sir Roland to a garbled version of what she thought she’d heard. And he, not fully trusting, and unsure how to tackle any of the young women involved, had decided on the manly approach, which was to summon their male companion, Sir Perceval de Coucy.

  “Must speak with you, Sir Perceval. Man to man, do you see? Yes. Most regrettable. Checking on rumours. Whispered about in the castle. You know how servants are. Word is, our Scottish guests may be intent on . . . misdirecting, if you will . . . Lady Joan. Young woman like that – no more than a girl, really! Not experienced. Not worldly, like us men. Not aware how dangerous it can be to . . . have dealings with Scots. What do you think? On the honour of a knight. She spoken to you about her purpose in the Marches?”

  Margaret arrived, thin-lipped and frowning, in the middle of Roland’s stunted explanation. He’d sent for her at the last minute, pulling her away from her afternoon routines and she resented it. There was much to do in the ordering and maintaining of castle life, particularly with the sudden change in the weather; and man-talk was so tedious. Nevertheless, she was there.

  “Sit,” Sir Roland commanded her, and she did. Then, to Sir Perceval, he barked, “Your answer?”

  “My Lord,” Perceval began, bowing ever so slightly from the waist. “Madame,” he repeated the bow in Margaret’s direction; “allow me first to thank you for your hospitality. Your corner of this land is beautiful, I think. And wild. My wife and I, we have long wished to see it. When we accepted Lady Joan’s invitation to travel, we expected only primitive fare. But here we find . . . a sophisticated lady!” He bowed again and gave his most winning smile. “And,” he added, bowing to Sir Roland, “her most chivalrous knight – living in a great fortress.”

  Margaret felt herself instantly beguiled by the French knight’s gracious air, but Roland was immune to flattery. “Save that!” he snapped. “What of my question?”

  Perceval bowed again and said, “Lady Margaret, I apologise – for taking you from your duties. My wife and I are far from our home in Burgundy . . . a part of France which, you know, views with favour the ambitions of King Henry. France, I fear, grows weary and poor under King Charles. He is mad, you know. He cannot rule.”

  Margaret reached out as though to stop his speech, but Perceval persisted.

  “No, madame,” he said. “I must be truthful. Forgive me. It is not my place to speak of kings. But the times, they change. Your king, he marries our princess – Katherine of Valois – a daughter of his enemy – a daughter of France. He makes love instead of hate, uh? Together, with God’s help, they make a son! This is a plan worthy of a Frenchman, nest ce pas Madame? A plan to bring an end to the wars! My wife and I, we travel in England, you know . . . with this hope. That like your king . . . we, also, can make a friend of our enemy. Eh voila! Only love remains!”

  “Of course! Of course!” Margaret simpered. “And you are welcome to this humble frontier, Sir Perceval.”


  “Rrrrr!” snarled Roland. “My question, Sir!”

  Perceval nodded, content to have earned himself enough time to compose a careful response.

  “I only speak so, Sir Roland, to assure you of my . . . friendship. Lady Margaret, your husband has spoken to me of . . . rumours. Rumours and castles go together, n’est ce pas? Like oil and vinegar! Together, they add piquancy to the bland salad of our days. But these rumours, they speak of danger for Lady Joan de Beaufort! Danger, perhaps, from your Scottish guests! And this, we cannot have, eh? No, no, no! The lady – must be safeguarded! At all costs! And so . . . to speak behind a lady’s back, I risk my honour! Still. What must be . . . !” He shrugged resignedly and drew a deep breath, as though forcing himself to proceed. “Lady Joan, she travels simply, you know? A devout young woman. She visits holy places. My wife and I . . . we are not confidantes of the lady. No no! Travelling companions – nothing more! But we would see, eh? If there was fear? I see no fear. But . . . Sir Roland . . . he is a knight with great responsibility! And Lady Joan – to speak plainly – she is a child. If Sir Roland believes that the Lady Mary Gordon presents a danger to Lady Joan and to yourselves . . . ”

  The mouth of Lady Margaret dropped open and her hands flew to her throat. “To us? What possible danger could she be to us?” she gasped.

  “Madame,” said Perceval, going down on one knee, the better to look directly into Margaret’s eyes, “the dangers are many and unknown. But I give you my promise! On my knight’s honour, I will watch over Lady Joan. My all, I give, to protect her. You may rely on me, Lady Margaret. As you English say, if there is smoke, we must prepare for fire.”

  Chapter 11 – Under Attack

  In the end, Madeleine and Anwen had little choice but to follow Wild Jack Sorespot and Roger Ringworm. Their fear of being lost in the forest was great, but their combined refusal to be labelled as ‘useless’ was absolute. Though they were not usually allies in family quarrels, here in the forest, alliance came naturally. Together they would be strong. Together, they could easily prove their worth to anyone – particularly to two no-good, forest-dwelling pig stealers. So, when the boys set off walking, the girls fell in behind.