Margaret Hanmer was now the mother of eleven children, their parents’ pride and joy. She had a handsome face with strong bones and a direct gaze, a powerful woman in her own right, enjoying with her husband his retirement from the army and the administration of his rich estates in Wales. With all her other duties she had an ever-watchful eye for people she thought needed her help and one of those was Catrin. She had become fond of the girl on her previous visits, shrewdly seeing that she was in need of motherly attention, overshadowed as she was by a domineering and selfish father. Quietly she had removed Catrin to the women’s quarters and encouraged her undoubted talents, trying to instil some much-needed confidence. This visit would be no different.
Catrin found herself sharing a bedroom in the manor house with Catherine and Alys, her two special friends amongst the Glyndŵrs’ daughters. And they greeted her with hugs and much delighted giggling. Once she had washed her dusty face, hands and feet in a basin of warm water, proffered by a household servant, the young women trooped back across the bridge over the moat to the great hall which was built against the perimeter wall of the bailey. There, they joined the household for the evening meal, after which Dafydd recited and sang for the assembled company, accompanying himself long into the evening on Lady Margaret’s beautiful harp. It was as the household was settling to sleep that she beckoned Dafydd and his daughter back across the bailey and into the main house where they settled by the fire in her private solar and at last they had a chance to talk privately.
‘I remember that you see the future, Master Dafydd,’ she said. ‘There are many men of your talents and my husband values all their opinions, but none so much as yours. As you may have heard, we are embroiled in many problems, most at the instigation of our neighbour Reginald Grey, who every man woman and child in the border March knows to be my husband’s mortal enemy.’ She sighed. ‘The man has stolen our land and lost Owain the hearing in parliament at Westminster which should have restored it.’ She paused, trying to contain her anger at the memory. His claim had been dismissed with the insulting comment, ‘What care we for barefoot Welsh curs’, an insult which could not be forgiven. Wiser heads than Sir Reginald’s had tried to calm the situation with no success and her husband had returned to Wales in fury.
She took a deep breath and when she spoke again her voice was calmer. ‘This man compounds the injustices the Welsh people suffer at the hands of the English authorities and now, as you no doubt have heard, he has betrayed and tricked us again by telling the king that Owain refused to answer his call to fight the Scots when Owain knew nothing of the summons because Sir Reginald had chosen to keep the muster a secret from him. That has led to my husband being declared a traitor!’ Her dark eyes flashed with fury. ‘You have heard about this, I see it in your faces.’ She gave him a fierce look of encouragement as she intercepted Dafydd and Catrin’s quick glance at one another. ‘This is all too much! The feelings of the people of the whole of North Wales are running very high, Master Dafydd. We feel we are sitting on a tinderbox here. My husband is a popular man. Very little provocation now would set the country alight, Welsh against English.’
Dafydd nodded. ‘The situation is grave and I have dreamed of the Lord Owain,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I had hoped to tell him in person.’
‘The reason he and the majority of our household are not here to greet you, Master Dafydd, is because Sir Reginald is to meet Owain tomorrow to discuss the problems between them at our hunting lodge in Glyndyfrdwy.’ She sighed again. She could not see the point of this meeting; no more could Owain’s brother. No good would come of it, but her husband was, as always, fair and anxious to resolve matters without violence if it were at all possible. ‘If you have anything relevant to impart, you should tell me.’ Margaret waited, drumming her fingers on a small table where a servant had left them wine and a plate of marchpane cakes.
‘I dreamt about him …’ Dafydd hesitated, ‘while I was a guest at another house north of here. Unfortunately I talked in my sleep and woke people, and my outburst led to us leaving rather hurriedly.’
Margaret’s face grew even more tense. ‘Another house?’
Dafydd threw another hasty look at Catrin. ‘We were at Ruthin Castle, my lady.’
She stared from one to the other askance. ‘You stayed with the Greys?’
‘It was my fault,’ Catrin put in. ‘My tad told me Sir Reginald was your enemy, but I insisted. I liked Lady Grey.’ She hung her head miserably. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘What did you dream?’ Ignoring Catrin, Margaret Glyndŵr stood up and began pacing in front of the fire, increasingly agitated.
Dafydd hesitated again.
‘Tell me.’ She stood looking intently into his face.
‘Sir Reginald was preparing for war.’ He pursed his lips as Margaret stared at him. ‘He had an army at hand. I dreamed of fire and slaughter.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Our own eyes seem to confirm my dream. On our way south to Sycharth we saw armed men in the deer park at Ruthin. It seemed to be some kind of muster.’
‘Thirty men.’ She nodded. ‘That was what was agreed, to accompany Sir Reginald to the meeting with my husband and his advisors, to discuss their differences.’
Dafydd shook his head violently as the reality of what they had seen fell into place. ‘No, no! On our way here our groom Edmund spotted a large quantity of armed men. Far more than thirty. They were gathering in the shelter of the woods in Sir Reginald’s park. We assumed they were preparing to follow the king, part of the muster to fight the Scots, but now I am not so sure. There would not have been any need for such secrecy if they were to go to Scotland.’
‘And your dream showed fire and slaughter?’ Margaret’s voice was tight with fear.
‘I saw blood and betrayal.’ He sighed. ‘Your lord and husband should be very careful, my lady. I dreamed of his victory and his triumph over the greed of the English lords, but now, at this moment, he is in danger and he should flee. I dream true, madam, as you know.’
She looked at him hard. ‘My husband does not flee,’ she retorted. She sat down abruptly. ‘I knew Sir Reginald wasn’t a man of honour, but I didn’t believe he would go back on his word if there was a chance of sorting all this out.’ Her tone wavered.
Dafydd continued to hold her gaze. ‘He is not to be trusted.’
‘You should have told me the moment you arrived here.’ A flash of impatience crossed her face. ‘So much precious time has been wasted.’ She jumped to her feet again. ‘Take fresh horses. Go to him now. It may not be too late. You will have to ride through the night.’
Having made up her mind she acted swiftly, calling out instructions to her steward, pausing only briefly to glance at Catrin. Her heart went out to the girl who was looking distraught. ‘This is not your fault, child. It is thanks to your insistence that you go to Ruthin that we are warned, and I thank providence for that. But for now, you look exhausted. You should stay here with Catherine and Alys until your father returns. I know they were looking forward to seeing you. They are hoping you will give them more lessons in weather magic.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘Do you remember once you taught them to call down the mist from the mountains? They tried to teach their father, and he grows quite adept.’
Catrin smiled at the memory. She had so looked forward to this moment, but she had to stay with her own father. He would expect it. ‘I will go with him, my lady.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘I too dream these days,’ she added softly. ‘My dreams too speak of Lord Glyndŵr’s triumph. But he will wade through a river of blood.’ She stopped abruptly, appalled at her own words. Looking up she saw Lady Margaret’s face blanch. ‘He is destined to be a great prince,’ she went on in a whisper. ‘His name will live forever as a hero of our people.’
‘A prince!’ Margaret Glyndŵr’s eyes narrowed as she echoed the word.
‘He is the descendant of princes is he not?’ Catrin could have bitten out her tongue. She looked round for her father, who had alrea
dy headed out of the door. She wasn’t sure where the words had come from. She knew nothing of the Lord Owain’s ancestry. Unlike her father, she had never had to learn the pedigrees of princes. With a hastily bobbed curtsy she turned and fled, leaving the older woman staring after her.
They rode through bright moonlight, escorted this time by four armed guides, men who had been born and bred in these mountains and could find their way blindfold through the trackways in the forest, along the drovers’ roads over the high tops and down into the shadowed valleys between. They kept up a steady pace as the route climbed steeply ahead of them onto the bleak lonely moors where the bright colours of the bracken and heather leached pale in the cold moonlight and the wind keened through the heather, then they dropped down into the wooded valleys, where the rustling leaves of the trees were silvered and shaded as clouds crossed the moon.
They had been given sturdy mountain ponies, fresh and well trained, and Edmund was with them. He too had been given a horse and they were travelling fast, hooves thudding rhythmically on the peaty tracks, every now and then striking a hidden rock, the sound ringing out across the hills as they threaded their way up and over the passes towards the north.
Fighting her exhaustion, Catrin glanced nervously behind her now and then. Her father’s words of warning were circling in her head. After all, she too had seen the men quietly mustering in the woods behind Ruthin Castle, and she had seen the intense worry in the eyes of Owain Glyndŵr’s wife as she took in the possible meaning of Dafydd’s warning, but the quiet confidence of their guides and the speed of their journey was reassuring. They would arrive in time.
The sky was lightening in the east when at long last they descended into the valley of the River Dee. The watchmen and the dogs at Glyndyfrdwy heard them coming. They saw the bright flare of sconces as a door opened and heard the rasp of swords being drawn. One of the men-at-arms with them called out and in minutes their small party had been admitted to the courtyard of the Lord of Glyndŵr’s hunting lodge on the banks of the river. Their exhausted horses were led away and they were shown into the house where he was waiting for them. Obviously awoken from his sleep he was wrapped in a fur-trimmed mantle as he sat by a newly lit brazier. He called for refreshments for his guests then waited for Dafydd to speak, his face becoming increasingly grim as he heard what his visitor had to say.
A tall man of around fifty, his eyes as intent and piercing as those of his wife, he heard Dafydd without comment until he had finished, then he sat back, thinking, rubbing his beard. Several other men had joined them as Dafydd’s explanation of their arrival and visit to Sycharth proceeded and they all looked at one another grimly in the firelight.
‘I told you that you could not trust him,’ a deep voice spoke from the shadows. ‘You have no need of a stranger to prophesy for you when your own bards and seers have warned you of the dangers and urged you on to your destiny.’
Owain glanced towards the corner of the room and nodded slowly. ‘You are right, Crach, my friend, and I have listened to you all, and now Dafydd comes to emphasise what you have told me, and with an eyewitness account of the men he has seen. But surely we must give Sir Reginald one more chance to prove himself an honourable man? We can’t be certain what he intends for those men-at-arms, or indeed that there are as many as our good friends believe. In the darkness of the woods they could have been mistaken.’ His gaze moved to Edmund, who was standing in the background.
Edmund straightened his shoulders. ‘I was not mistaken, my lord. I crept very close through the trees.’
‘And you don’t think perhaps that Sir Reginald was preparing to hunt?’ Owain asked, anxious to give the man the benefit of the doubt. He noted Edmund’s shake of the head and glanced across at his brother, Tudur, who had joined them near the fire. The two men conferred quietly then Owain turned back to Dafydd, who stood grim-faced. ‘I believe you, Master Dafydd, but I can’t react without more proof. The important thing is, we have been warned. If we feel Sir Reginald has betrayed us yet again, then we will act.’ He softened his words with a smile. ‘You shall have food and rest, and your daughter too.’ He directed a quick glance at Catrin who, though awed by the presence of these powerful men, was falling asleep on her feet. ‘Later today, we will see what transpires when Sir Reginald arrives, and thanks to you we will be ready should he show any signs of treachery.’
Catrin slept huddled against the back of one of the serving women, in front of the fire in the kitchen. Glyndyfrdwy was nothing like Sycharth. This was no handsome manor house. More of a rugged lodge, the hall had been built on the banks of the River Dee below the high motte which had been the site of an ancient castle. This was a place where men met for the hunt. It was beautiful and basic.
Her rest was brief. Within a few hours the kitchen was bustling with preparations for the meeting which was to be held later in the day.
Her father told her what happened later. The hall had been transformed into a council chamber with the Lord Owain, his brother and advisors and his eldest son, Gruffudd, all seated at one side of the table. Dafydd was placed on a bench next to Glyndŵr’s personal seer and prophet Crach Ffinnant who scowled at him throughout.
At the allotted time Sir Reginald Grey had arrived with his thirty followers as stipulated. He was a seasoned politician and warrior, but his hostility to the Lord Glyndŵr was barely concealed as he took his seat at the table. Dafydd studied him with care, aware that the man had not registered the presence of a travelling bard who, had he but known it, had graced his wife’s own table only two days before. As it was he sat back, his fingers drumming silently on the table, his eyes fixed on Glyndŵr’s face, his mouth a thin sneer as the proceedings began.
The chamber was silent save for the crackling of the logs in the hearth and the shifting of the men seated around the long table with the silent ring of followers standing behind them. As stipulated in their agreement, all the men had left their swords outside.
When the door opened to admit a latecomer, Dafydd felt his stomach tighten with fear, but it was a man he knew, one of Glyndŵr’s neighbours and his own friend and colleague, the poet Iolo Goch, who bowed and made his apologies for arriving late to the meeting.
‘Allow me to make amends for my tardiness, my lords,’ Iolo said, still standing although he had been waved to a place at the table. He walked to the far end of the room and without giving anyone time to speak he began to sing, his powerful baritone voice rising to the rafters. Dafydd saw Sir Reginald glance heavenwards in disbelief, making it clear that the ways of these Welsh were beyond countenancing, but Glyndŵr nodded and smiled, relaxing back from the documents before him on the table. Iolo was singing in Welsh and Sir Reginald had already made it clear he did not speak the language. Nor it appeared did any of his men. There was an imperceptible shift in the atmosphere of the room as the song progressed and Dafydd realised that the poet was improvising. There are men outside; men with swords; beware, my lord, and save yourself. Leave the house now. Go swiftly. Hide like a fleeing stag to fight later. Iolo’s smiling serene face gave no sign that he had deviated from the time-honoured form of the song as he drew to an end and bowed.
Around him there was a quiet ripple of applause as Glyndŵr stood and bowed back. He left his place at the head of the table and strode down the hall to where Iolo was standing, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Make yourself comfortable, my friend. Your words remind me that I have documents in my chamber which I think will make my case more clearly to Sir Reginald.’ He half turned and bowed towards Sir Reginald, who was looking more and more impatient, then he walked slowly and with dignity out of the hall.
There was a restless movement amongst the men left behind. Sir Reginald was chewing his lips, his face becoming more choleric by the minute as his men stood ranged uncomfortably along the wall behind him. Glyndŵr’s followers, spread out down the opposite side of the hall, moved from foot to foot and, eyeing each other meaningfully, edged imperceptibly across the doorway. No one
would leave the hall by the main doors without their say.
The Lord of Glyndŵr did not return. He had made his way through to the back of the house and slipped out through the kitchens onto the riverbank and thence up into the woodland beyond. In minutes he had vanished, but not before seeing that the warning of Iolo and of Dafydd had been well made. A large body of armed men was approaching across the water meadows. Sir Reginald had again proved himself a man of no honour.
When Glyndŵr’s escape was discovered Sir Reginald’s fury was immediate. With a howl of rage he threw the document in front of him onto the floor and stamped on it, and with a shout at his men to follow him he strode towards the door. The men of Glyndŵr, with a glance at Tudur, stood back, their faces grim, and let them go.
Outside, the extent of Sir Reginald’s deceit was obvious. His thirty allotted followers were far outnumbered by the body of armed men milling about outside the gates. With Sir Reginald at their head they galloped away up the track towards the east.
The men left behind armed themselves and waited for the inevitable return of their foe, intent on revenge at being outwitted, but no one came.
As the scene faded, Andy became aware slowly that she wasn’t in her own bed. She was lying under the duvet in Sue’s bedroom. She stretched out and stared up at the ceiling, her eyes closing again as she tried to return to the past. It was engaging and exciting and Catrin was there, in the midst of a piece of history. She wanted to know what happened next.
Then she remembered. Rhona. And Graham.
With a groan she lay back, the dream retreating, feeling the hot tears welling out from beneath her eyelids. She hadn’t seen Graham, not properly. She hadn’t felt his arms, nestled against his chest, heard his quiet chuckle as they talked into the night. Instead she had seen Rhona. Why always Rhona? It wasn’t what she wanted. It was the thing she desired least in the whole world, the woman who had heaped misery on misery.