Sleeper’s Castle

  A throw on the sofa was quite definitely not Sue’s, and a sweater, lying across the arm of one of the chairs wasn’t hers either. Andy seemed to have a slightly boho, ethnic taste, quite unlike Sue’s. Artistic was perhaps one way of describing it. He touched nothing, circling the room silently, just looking. Books everywhere. One or two he did pick up and he frowned. Mind, body and spirit was how they classified these things in bookshops. Ghosts. Meditation. Healing. Dreams.

  Dreams. Ghosts.

  ‘So, Catrin,’ he whispered. ‘Have you been making a nuisance of yourself already?’

  It was nearly eleven the next morning when Andy pulled into her parking place, blessedly empty, and made her way up the steps to her front door. Pepper was sitting in the hall.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at once. ‘I’m going to make up for it now. Double rations. How does that sound?’

  As she opened the cat-food drawer she saw the message light blinking on the phone. Turning her back on it she reached for a fork and filled Pepper’s bowl with the requisite dose of tuna. He danced across the room on his back legs as she went to put the bowl down on the floor in its accustomed place, sniffed the food and then turned to her with a look of disdain on his face. She grinned. ‘I was warned you would do that, my friend. I expect you’ve been stuffing yourself with delicious little mice or something while I was away. Up to you if you eat it or not.’ She turned her back on him in her turn and pressed the play button on the phone. There was a moment’s silence then Rhona’s voice rang out in the room. ‘I thought you would like to know all the burning is done. There’s nothing left.’

  Andy felt herself grow cold. She forced herself to take a deep breath, then she pressed the delete button. So the woman had found the phone number to this house. She must have been reading through the letters before she burned them and tried all the numbers till she got the right one. Andy shivered, aware that the burn on her hand was stinging.

  She turned away from the dresser. While she had been distracted by the phone call someone had emptied the cat plate and licked it clean. Pepper was sitting in the middle of the floor, washing his whiskers. When he saw her watching him, he stopped washing and glared at her. ‘You old hypocrite,’ she said fondly. He held her gaze for a moment then he stood up and headed for the cat flap. It wasn’t easy, she realised, to look dignified when you were halfway through a cat flap with only your bottom left in the room, but somehow he managed it and the flap shut with a snap behind his retreating tail.

  She took a deep breath. She was not going to allow Rhona to wind her up. This was her own fault for leaving her letters behind, and everything else that Rhona claimed to have burnt. There must have been a lot of stuff in that house which she’d not had the time or space to pack up and bring away. Ten years of mementoes. But Rhona couldn’t touch the memories. They were indelible. All she had to do was sit down and bring them back to mind – and that was more than Rhona had. Over the last ten years Rhona had virtually no memories of Graham at all.

  Thinking about it, Rhona couldn’t have been sure that the number she had dialled was going to find Andy. It can only have been a guess, unless somebody had told her. She swallowed hard, trying to master her panic at the thought. Did it really matter if the woman knew where she was?

  Nevertheless she rang her mother.

  ‘Darling, you know I wouldn’t give your number to anyone, let alone that dreadful woman! How could you even think it?’ Nina was indignant.

  Hilary was even more cross. ‘She wouldn’t get it out of either of us with thumbscrews. It’s much more likely to be the police,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘She could have tricked that young man who came to see us. He wasn’t the brightest light on the Christmas tree, bless him. She’ll never come up there, though, Andy. Good grief! Why would she? She wants shot of you, not to keep in touch.’

  That much was true.

  Andy didn’t dare admit it was all her fault. It was she who had inadvertently tweaked a tiger’s tail, and now she didn’t know how to let go.

  10

  At Glyndyfrdwy all was silent for a while. Those who had remained in the hall waited and held their breath. The day faded into night and there was no sign of Dafydd’s host nor of Sir Reginald and his men. Lady Margaret and her daughters and younger sons with other members of the Glyndŵr family had arrived, grim-faced and anxious, others had slipped away with Owain’s brother, Tudur, up into the mountains, no doubt to rendezvous with Owain. Up there, in a hideaway deep in the Berwyn Mountains, Owain Glyndŵr was holding a council of war.

  Dafydd sat at a makeshift desk and scribbled notes and wrote lines of poetry. His dreams had stopped and for two nights he slept soundly by the great banked fire, but his poetic zeal was in full flow. Catrin, nervous and wary, followed Lady Margaret as she walked in the sunlight outside. They were all waiting; even the birds had stopped singing.

  The Lord of Ruthin did not return.

  Three days after the aborted meeting with Grey, Owain Glyndŵr came back to Glyndyfrdwy full of resolve. The time for talking was over. He had tried conciliation. He was the descendant of princes, a man of courage and honour, a man of passion and justice and loyalty and he had been traduced and betrayed. Grey’s hostility and plotting and scheming had been the last straw, one insult too many, not only to him but against the Welsh people. However reluctantly, it was time to lay down his lawyer’s pen and pick up his sword. The prophets had spoken long ago and his bards, Crach and Iolo and Dafydd and men like them, had reminded him of his duty and his destiny. They had reminded him of his princely blood. His people were suffering the same insults, the same taxes, the same disparagement as he was. It was time to call a halt. The people of Wales needed a leader in their fight for freedom and he was the man to lead them. He was a true Welshman with royal lineage, he would reclaim the title of Prince of Wales from the son of King Henry. This Prince of Wales would be worthy of the title by descent from his royal ancestors, by his qualities of leadership and by his support throughout the country. His leadership, his resolution, and his victory had been foretold by the seers.

  There was no need for Owain to send out a call to the people of Wales to come to his banner. Within days word had spread throughout Wales, into England and beyond, and men were flocking to his standard from every side. The fight for independence had begun. They came from the mountains and the coast and the valleys, in groups and singly, as word spread like wildfire that the time for waiting, for talking, was over. The men of North Wales had found a leader, a figurehead for their dreams.

  The sixteenth of September was Owain’s birthday, a symbolic day and coincidentally also the birthday of that other prince of Wales, the imposter in King Henry’s court. Around three hundred people had gathered around the ancient motte in the angle of the river at Glyndyfrdwy, as Owain stepped forward on its summit and gripped the lance to which the banner of the princes of Powys, Owain’s ancestors on his father’s side, had been fixed, raising it above his head to the cheers of the crowd around him. On one side of him stood his eldest son, Gruffudd, and on the other his brother, Tudur. All three men were looking up at the flag as the rampant black lion with its vicious claws rippled and thundered in the wind.

  Catrin was there, at the front of the crowd, by her father’s side, her eyes fixed on Owain’s face. Behind her, Edmund too was gazing up at this man who had transformed himself seemingly overnight from a country gentleman into a warrior prince. She felt it as a physical wave of energy, the determination and pride and excitement of the people around them. Their cheers rang out across the countryside and came back to them with the cry of the eagle and the raven from the distant cliffs and valleys.

  There would be war. It was inevitable.

  The next morning Owain called Dafydd and Catrin to the chamber he had set aside as his headquarters while his plans were laid and as they waited for more and more men to make their way to his standard. ‘Dafydd, my friend,’ he said quietly. He was standing in front of the fire, wearing his
long gown and cloak, looking more like the lawyer he had been trained to be than the warrior in armour of the day before. ‘You have done me a great service, and I thank you for it. And you, Catrin.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But now you must go home.’

  Dafydd stared at him. ‘No! Not now. Not just as things are falling into place.’

  Owain sighed. ‘They will not just fall into place, Dafydd. We will have to fight and fight bitterly for what we want, you know that as well as I do. There will be bloodshed – you said as much. You foresaw it in your dreams. The men of Wales are gathering behind me. Two arrived this morning who had ridden posthaste from Oxford University where they had thrown up their studies to join my standard. Word has travelled the length and breadth of the land like lightning. If you were on your own, Dafydd, I might ask you to stay with me, but you have your daughter to consider. I cannot ask you to risk her life by being in the vanguard of the fighting. I have my seers here, Iolo and Crach, and they will stay with me. So go, my friend, with my thanks and my blessing.’ He pressed a bag of coins into Dafydd’s hand.

  ‘No!’ Dafydd repeated. ‘You can’t send me away. Not now.’

  Iolo and Crach had insisted Owain dismiss Dafydd. He was a disruptive presence, they said. His dreams were inconsistent. Owain had listened. He was used to petty jealousies amongst his advisors, but he too heard the wild unpredictability in Dafydd’s declarations. ‘I can send you away, Dafydd, and I command it. As your prince.’ He turned to Catrin and reached over onto the table. ‘I want you to have this, my dear. A necklace which Margaret thought you would like.’ He picked up a smaller pouch and poured the contents into his palm. ‘Let me fix it for you.’ He stepped towards her and fastened the necklace round her neck. It was made of gold and hung with garnets.

  Catrin raised her hand to the cold gems. It was a magnificent gift. ‘My prince. No. I want to stay too. My father is right, we can’t go now.’

  He wagged his finger at her. ‘You must. I will not be responsible for putting you in danger any more than I would my own wife and daughters. I am sending them back to Sycharth today. We ride out tomorrow to take the battle to Ruthin.’

  He held her gaze. ‘Do not be embarrassed that you went there, child. You and your father were able to warn us about Grey’s treachery. You probably saved my life and all Wales will thank you for that.’ He turned to the table and picked up a pen. ‘Now leave me. Tell the men waiting outside that they should come in.’

  Dafydd and Catrin looked at one another. She saw the devastation on her father’s face. ‘No. Please. You can’t send us away,’ she cried. ‘I will go. I will go back to Sycharth with the Lady Margaret, but please, let my father stay. You need him. He is the best seer in the whole of Wales.’

  He smiled. ‘I am sure he is, Catrin. But he has a beautiful daughter and I would not want her to be hurt. I know what war is. I would not wish any woman to be needlessly present.’

  ‘I wear your ring,’ she said suddenly. She brandished her hand in front of him. ‘You gave it to me three years ago and I have worn it ever since. You can’t send me away.’

  He glanced down at her hand and reaching out gave it a squeeze. ‘When I am triumphant and the English are driven from the land and I have a royal court to entertain you, you will come to me and remind me of the ring you wear, Catrin. I will remember your loyalty, I promise.’

  He stood and waited. There was nothing for it. They had to leave.

  Outside in the courtyard Dafydd was furious. ‘You could have gone with the Lady Margaret. Because of you, I am to miss all this!’ His gesticulating hand took in the crowds of men and horses massing on the water meadows below the lodge. He clenched his teeth furiously.

  ‘But I offered to go with her.’ Catrin was stunned at the injustice of his remark. ‘You heard me. I begged him to let you stay.’

  ‘And he said no.’ Dafydd stared round. ‘And now we have to find our horses. And Edmund.’

  ‘Edmund!’ She looked round, stunned. She didn’t remember having seen him since they had stood together and watched Owain raise the banner. How would they ever find him in all these crowds?

  Prince Owain had, it appeared, thought of that. A messenger had been sent to find Edmund and their horses in the stables. Edmund was starry-eyed. ‘I would fight for Prince Owain to the death,’ he said as Dafydd called him over. ‘I have sworn my allegiance. I am to be one of his bowmen.’

  ‘I think not,’ Dafydd snapped. ‘You are escorting me and my daughter back to Brycheiniog.’

  Edmund stared at him, his face white with shock. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t. I have sworn allegiance—’

  ‘And so you will obey his orders. He has told us that you will escort us back to Sycharth, where we exchange these horses for our own, and then we have to return south.’ Dafydd’s own expression was bleak. Edmund made no move to bring the horses forward. ‘Well, boy, go and find our bags!’ Dafydd ordered testily. ‘This pleases me no more than it pleases you, but Lord Owain has given the order. He needs to protect Catrin. If she hadn’t come, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Catrin exploded. ‘You asked me to come on this journey with you and you have been pleased I was here. All the way! Prince Owain thanked me. He recognised my service.’

  ‘And he saw you as a hindrance,’ her father retorted. ‘Hurry, Edmund. Fetch our belongings and we will go. We need to be on the road by noon or we will be caught again by the dusk. At least we can spread the word as we go and tell the people of Wales that their deliverance has come, even if we are to be no part of it.’

  It was the fourth time the landline had rung, piercing Andy’s dream, and each time she had ignored it, sinking back into a half-waking reverie as she sat dozing at the kitchen table. Opening her eyes she finally picked it up and answered. There was silence on the other end of the line. ‘Hello?’ she repeated.

  There was another moment’s silence and then clearly she heard a quiet laugh, a woman’s laugh, before the caller hung up.

  Andy sat still for several minutes, staring into the distance, her mind a blank until slowly her faculties began to work again. So Rhona knew where she was. So what? It was one hundred and seventy-odd miles from Kew to Hay. The woman was not going to travel all this way, just to be unpleasant.

  She picked up her ballpoint and looked at the open notebook before her. Then she looked again. This was her writing all right, but pages and pages of it? When had she written all that? She could feel her chest tightening with fear as she turned the pages back one by one, noting words here and there which stood out clearly – Owain. Prince. Sycharth. Other bits of the text were so wildly scribbled she couldn’t read them, or at least not easily, packed onto the pages with an urgency she couldn’t recall at all.

  Catrin and Edmund were not speaking. Catrin and her father were not speaking. They were riding fast southwards, stopping for only one night at a time, spreading the word of Glyndŵr’s uprising, greeted in some places by excitement and enthusiasm, in others with horror and anger at the thought of war.

  At a farmstead near Newtown they had gathered a piece of news which made them all pause. Owain had led his men to Ruthin. The castle had proved too much for the small band of bitter men, but they had overrun the town and burned it to the ground. Catrin gasped as she heard the account. Lord and Lady Grey and their family had not been there. They had already left for the south. But what of the others she had met? What of Mary and Anne? Had they been safely in the castle, peering over the battlements as the smoke rose from the burning buildings, or had they been out there in the town? There was no word of casualties. From Ruthin, Owain’s men had marched on to Denbigh, Flint and Oswestry, amongst other places, targeting English strongholds to show them he meant business. Then as Catrin, Dafydd and Edmund moved on south, further and further away from the action, they heard, via a king’s messenger, taking the news on a sweating horse back along the high road to Westminster, that Sir Hugh Burnell had mustered a huge army of l
ocal men and defeated Owain’s small band near Welshpool. Catrin and Dafydd listened to the news with dry mouths and anxious hearts, but there the news stopped. Owain’s men had withdrawn as swiftly as they had attacked. His little army had disappeared. He had vanished into the misty mountains.

  Edmund was not dismayed. He grinned at them when he heard the news. ‘I heard one of his bowmen say he is a magician. He can order the weather, command the clouds. The English will never catch him,’ he announced. ‘I can’t imagine where he could have learned such arts.’ He glanced at Catrin and she blushed.

  Edmund went on: ‘But now he has started on his campaign he will continue until he has secured Wales as an independent kingdom in its own right.’

  Dafydd looked at him doubtfully. ‘You think so, Edmund?’

  ‘I know it.’ Edmund turned back to them, readying them for the road. They had spent the night at a roadside inn and were preparing to leave as the messenger had ridden in. They still had a long way to go. ‘Don’t you think he will win?’ the younger man swung back to face Dafydd, his arms full of bridles and halters. ‘Didn’t you dream of success for him? Didn’t you tell him he was the son of the prophets, foretold in the ancient prophecies – the Mab Darogan.’ For all he was an English speaker, Edmund could get his tongue round the Welsh language when he needed to.

  Dafydd nodded slowly. ‘I dreamed that, yes. But I dreamed of other things too. Of death and destruction.’

  Catrin swallowed. She would never forget the notes in her father’s study, the anguished nightmares, the fear, the taste of blood on the wind. He hadn’t been the only one to forecast disaster as well as triumph.

  ‘There is always death in war,’ Edmund said cheerfully. ‘The important thing is who wins in the end.’