Sleeper’s Castle

  ‘In the battle I foresee, you are winning,’ she said, suddenly shy. ‘But the people suffer. Their towns are burned. Their fields are laid waste, their animals killed. There is no food. The armies take it all. I saw an abbey burning, the house of God. I watched flames pouring from its roof.’ Her voice rose slightly and broke and she looked at him, agonised.

  Dafydd moved towards her as if to stop her but Glyndŵr raised his hand. ‘No, let her speak. You realise that much of that damage is done by the English armies, Cat,’ he said gently. ‘It is their way to punish the people for supporting me. And they do support me.’

  ‘They do. They hate the English laws and taxes. But this is a terrible price to pay.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I suppose I have never seen men die before.’

  ‘And even in your dreams it is a fearful sight.’

  She nodded mutely.

  ‘It will be worth it, Cat.’ He smiled again. ‘I will win. I will drive them out.’ His quiet certainty made her feel strangely warm and safe.

  Edmund had set up the trestle table in the parlour. He had built up a large fire and the room was warm and welcoming when they seated themselves on the two settles. Catrin had laid the table with their best silver spoons and her precious glass goblets from the aumbry, part of her mother’s dower which had escaped her father’s ire. The stew and the soft bread which Joan had baked just before she left that morning seemed to satisfy the three men but Catrin ate very little. She studied their guest as he sat opposite her. He was still a handsome man, tall and well built, his hair and his long forked beard greying now, his blue eyes compelling as he looked from one to the other in the room. He had a kind smile. She remembered that from the last time she had seen him when he had declared himself prince beneath his black lion banner. She felt his charm and his strength and his absolute certainty.

  Dafydd seemed ill at ease. Catrin saw Glyndŵr reach out and touch her father’s arm. ‘I value your visions, Dafydd. There will be setbacks and I need to know about them,’ he said. ‘My other advisors and seers are too afraid to tell me what may go wrong. I need to know so I can take evasive action. Your vision is as valuable as anyone’s. But I need your insights to be private. I do not want my men disheartened.’

  Dafydd scowled. ‘I am sorry. I spoke out of turn. I cannot always control my own horror at the sights I see.’

  Glyndŵr sighed. ‘I understand.’ He stood up and stepped back from the bench. ‘And now we must go. I thank you for your hospitality, Cat.’ He smiled at her. ‘I have a gift for you.’ He felt in his purse and pulled out a small silk kerchief. It was wrapped around a bracelet of silver filigree. Gallantly he fastened it round her wrist, shaking his head at her stammered thanks. ‘Now we must ride. My men await me and we head on through the mountains towards Abergavenny.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Not a word of our visit.’

  Catrin struggled to waken but the dream had her now. The smell of smoke was torrid. A building had been torched. A large building. A church, its soaring arches and flying buttresses etched against the fury of the flames. She tried to murmur a prayer but no words came. She saw the brothers streaming out of the smoke, fleeing into the hills. The soldiers let them go, contenting themselves with watching the windows shatter and the lead melt. The stone would not burn, but the monks’ dorter, the refectory, the prior’s house, all were ruined.

  Her own tears woke her and she lay there in her bed staring towards the window. The shutter had come unfastened and between the mullions she could see the cold moon shining down on a silvered countryside. The moon felt nothing; there was no mercy there, no answer to prayer. In the silence of the dawn she heard an owl’s long lingering hoot, the cry of the harbinger of death.

  16

  Andy woke with a start as the echo of the owl’s call died away. She sat up clutching her duvet under her chin, staring across her bedroom. It was only just growing light.

  Glyndŵr had been in this house. He had stayed for supper and then vanished into the night. She could remember exactly how he had looked in the dream; he was thinner now than when she had first seen him, his face worn and tired. He was gentle and kind to Cat. She liked the way he called her Cat. But he was a strong personality. Of course he was. He would take no nonsense from anyone, that had been clear. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. The room was cold. The radiators hadn’t come on yet. She was trying to remember what he had said. He spoke English. But again, it was her dream, and in her dream everyone spoke English. But then again, didn’t one of the books say he had been trained as a lawyer in London. Wasn’t he an Oxford man and a man of the borders with an English wife?

  There was so much to remember. She climbed out of bed. Dragging on her dressing gown she went downstairs in search of her notebook. She had to write all this down as soon as possible before his words slid from her memory. She turned on the kitchen lights and rummaged on the dresser for her pen and the notebook she had left on the table then she retreated back to bed. There she began to scribble, words, mannerisms, looks, their clothes – both visitors had been wearing chain mail under their wet cloaks. Edmund was taller than his prince and much younger. About the same age as Catrin, she guessed. She paused, pen in mid-air. He obviously still fancied her. Did she reciprocate the feeling? It was an awfully lonely life for her up in the mountains with her irascible father, Joan and the two other servants as her only companions. Did she have friends? After all, she hadn’t witnessed every moment of Cat’s life. There was Efa, of course. Maybe she had neighbours as well, girl friends, the wives of farmers up the valley. Somehow she doubted it. Her life as a poet and a seer was something so different; akin to being a religious recluse, like one of Rufus’s heroines, Julian of Norwich. She lay back against the pillow. Was Cat a believer? She remembered Edmund mentioning the privations of Lent. Had Cat gone to church at Easter? Everyone did in medieval times, didn’t they? But then, where was the church? She thought back to the small lonely stone-built church up in the next valley, the church that served the scattered parish which was home to Sleeper’s Castle. She had visited it with Sue and Graham. It had been built in the twelfth century and was dedicated to someone called St Cewydd, the Welsh rain saint. She remembered that detail with a smile. That surely would have been Cat and Dafydd’s church, as it would be hers if she decided to go. And if St Cewydd was a rain saint he too must have had an influence on the weather of this oh so rainy country. Had Cat invoked him in her magic spells, or was it Taranis, the Celtic god of thunder she called on? Andy didn’t know.

  She was glad Edmund had reappeared on the scene. She had been terribly afraid he would be killed in battle. She pictured him as she had seen him in her dream. He had toughened up. Life as a follower of Glyndŵr’s army was hard. He had good muscles in his arms, a broad muscular chest and a weather-beaten handsome face beneath the wild flax-coloured hair which burst irrepressibly from beneath his woollen cap. Men and women in those days seemed to have their hair covered all the time. Even little Betsi in the cowshed had a shabby linen headscarf tied over her head. All the smart women Cat had met on her travels were exotically clothed in beautiful gowns and elaborate headdresses with exquisite jewellery. Well, Cat wasn’t doing too badly in that department either. She didn’t seem to wear jewellery, apart from the silver ring her prince had given her, but now she had at least two other lovely pieces.

  Andy’s mind strayed back to Edmund. He reminded her of someone. The set of his mouth, his eyes, even the wild hair. And then it dawned on her. It was Bryn. He bore a strong resemblance to Bryn.

  She lay back against the pillow, chewing the end of her pen as she pondered the similarity. Both men came from somewhere in the next valley as far as she knew; was it so far beyond the realms of possibility that they were related, that Bryn was a descendant of the dashing Edmund? She grinned to herself. It was a beguiling thought.

  Did Edmund hold a special place in Owain’s trust now if he accompanied him to visit Catrin and Dafydd alone, or was it merely, as he had said, th
at he was a part of Glyndŵr’s household and a handy guide into the hills? More likely the latter surely? But she would love to know more.

  To know more all she had to do was to dream.

  But it was no use, however hard she tried, she could not go back to sleep. Perhaps if she went for a walk it would clear her head. Throwing on her clothes she went downstairs, grabbed some breakfast and let herself out into the cold morning.

  As she headed up the lane, she realised she had not yet properly explored the mountain tracks on foot. The only times she had ventured any distance up here had been by car, on her way up to Meryn’s house and it took her far longer to reach the cattle grid than she had expected and the lane was far steeper. Her heart was thumping uncomfortably as she neared the top and she had to stop to catch her breath. Edging her way through the gate beside the grid she found herself at last on the open hillside.

  Behind her the narrow lane was lined by high banks and hedges heavy with vegetation, but here the grass was cropped close and she could see sheep everywhere she looked. The view opened up almost at once to panoramic views of the distant mountains to the west and north and further round towards the north-east to the deceptively gentler rolling hills of the Radnor Forest, which she remembered so vividly from when Catrin and her party had traversed them. She gasped at the beauty around her. When she had driven up here with Sian the view had been obscured by thick fog. Now, the faint trails of mist over the distant hollows and streams – known, Sian had told her, as dragon’s breath – only added to the magic. On her right a mountain stream ran down through the ferns, cutting deeper and deeper into the hillside, making its own valley, thick with ash and alder. She turned full circle, taking in the high slopes of Hay Bluff and Twmpa, noting in the distance a small, scattered herd of wild ponies grazing amongst the bracken and bilberries. Here and there she could see an occasional thorn tree, twisted and tortured by the wind, cowering low in a sheltered clearing, obviously a favourite spot for the sheep to shelter from the elements; and everywhere the golden flowers of gorse.

  She debated briefly whether to stay on the road, or to turn off and set out across country. It would be impossible to get lost here with the huge flank of the Bluff like a wall on the horizon. As she narrowed her eyes, staring up at it, she saw a brief finger of sunlight catch the windscreen of a car and she remembered that there was a road up there, traversing the side of the steep slope, heading south into the Gospel Pass. She walked towards the watery glimpses of the sun for a good half an hour, watching the sunbeams cut through the clouds to lie slanting across the distant countryside. From time to time she could see a faint rainbow arcing out across the landscape and watched the fierce rain showers racing across the ground towards her. She pulled up her collar and pushed her hands deep into her pockets, turning her shoulder to the rain as each shower struck. Overhead she heard the wild yelp of a buzzard and glancing up she saw it gliding above the Bluff, catching the thermals as it soared ever higher.

  She was climbing now, quite steeply, exhilarated by the walk but feeling increasingly tired. Soon she would have to turn round and begin to loop back or she wouldn’t have the energy to retrace her steps. She smiled to herself. If she had wondered whether this would tire her out she could wonder no more. She was beginning to ache all over from the effort of the walk. She was obviously not as fit as she had imagined. Turning, she scanned the horizon.

  It should be easy to retrace her steps. If she kept the great massive of the Bluff to her left shoulder she couldn’t go far wrong. She walked a few steps and stopped again. A deep gulley ran across the steep hillside in front of her. At its foot there were several thorn trees and she could see the rushes in the hollow growing round a small spring, the trickle of water winding off to lose itself in lush grasses. She didn’t remember seeing that before. For the first time she felt a quiver of unease. Raising her hand to shade her eyes she surveyed the horizon slowly turning a full 360 degrees. Hay Bluff was still there to her left as she stopped again. She glanced up at the sun to check. Twmpa was ahead of her; to the north was the view of miles upon miles of rolling countryside and distant hills. She couldn’t get lost. All she had to do was to keep the mountains in their allotted positions. She caught her breath as she saw something move on the near horizon, silhouetted against the sky in a dip between two low hills. Not a pony or a sheep but a human figure. Someone was standing there watching her. It was too far away to see which way they were facing, but even so she knew they were watching her. She could feel it. She walked on slowly. When she raised her head again and looked cautiously round the figure had gone. She took another bearing on the hills and set off again. Any moment now she would see the ribbon of roadway ahead of her, winding back down towards the cattle grid and the lane.

  It was several minutes later that she saw the car, the sun glinting on the windscreen. It was pulled up on the close-cropped grass at the edge of the road about half a mile below her. She stopped dead. Far away though it was she could see the colour clearly. Red. The roof down. A sports car. Rhona’s car? Please God, no. She looked round nervously then back at the car. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud and it had gone. There was no sign of it. She was alone in the vast landscape. Far away to her right she could see a group of ponies grazing near one of the thorn trees. Their heads were down, their tails swishing gently against the flies. If there was anyone there, they would know. Even as the thought crossed her mind she saw them raise their heads, all concentrating on the same spot some distance from them, their ears pricked. First one, then another, then all of them lowered their heads once more. Whatever had caught their attention had gone. She gave a quick glance round again and resumed walking, heading this time further to the right, away from the place she thought she had seen the car. Her feeling of tranquillity had gone. She could feel her anxiety mounting. It couldn’t be Rhona; of course it couldn’t. How would she know where Andy was? Unless she had come to the house, seen her leave and followed her at a distance.

  Andy stopped. She was once again on the edge of a steep gulley. It cut across the hillside in front of her, if anything more precipitous than the first she had seen. She surveyed the bottom of the rocky declivity. It was carpeted with sedge and bog cotton. It ran from east to west in front of her and the only way to pass it was to climb down and then up the other side. She took a few steps to her right trying to see a way round it, then stopped dead as a voice spoke behind her.

  ‘How strange to see you here, Miranda. Always you seem to be in my way.’

  Andy turned slowly. Rhona must have made her way up the narrow track behind her, hidden by the steep contours of the hillside. She was standing only a few metres from her. Dressed in a short-waisted jacket and jeans with knee-high leather boots, her red hair blowing in the wind, her eyes were hidden by dark glasses.

  Andy managed to hide her shock. ‘I’m only in your way, Rhona if you persist in following me,’ she said. ‘What on earth possessed you to come all the way up here?’

  Far above, a buzzard was wheeling below the clouds. Its wild yelping cry rang across the empty hillside, almost carried away on the wind.

  Rhona took a couple of paces closer. ‘Can’t you guess why I came?’ She was out of breath.

  ‘No. You’re hardly dressed for the occasion.’ Andy could feel herself beginning to shiver. Cold and exhaustion, combined with a real fear of this woman were creeping over her. She was terribly aware of the gaping ravine behind her, the miles of empty hillside in front. ‘Those boots are better suited to Knightsbridge, not the mountains.’ She managed to put a sneer into her voice. The wind was getting stronger. ‘Presumably you followed me from the house?’ In a landscape void of human life they were totally alone.

  Rhona took another step closer to her and in spite of herself Andy moved back. The gulley was only steps away.

  ‘Tell me why you’ve come, then we can both go our separate ways.’

  ‘You’re right. We need to talk.’ Rhona pushed the hair out of her eyes. ??
?About Graham. My husband.’

  ‘What is there left to say?’ Andy edged a couple of steps sideways. She had to get past Rhona, away from the drop.

  Rhona moved closer. ‘There is a great deal to say I would think.’

  There was barely a metre between them now. Andy glanced round wildly, trying to see a way out. She could feel herself beginning to panic. She tried another step sideways. Rhona matched it.

  ‘Please move, Rhona. Let me come past.’ Andy’s boots were losing their grip on the slippery ground. She lunged frantically to one side, trying to dodge around the woman, but it was no use. She was off balance.

  Andy heard herself scream as she felt herself slipping and the grass disappeared from beneath her feet. For several seconds she fell backwards, then she hit the steep rocky slope. She grappled desperately with clumps of bracken and grass to halt her fall and felt it being torn from her hands as her weight carried her on down until she tumbled awkwardly with a splash into the moss at the bottom. With a cry of pain she felt her ankle double up under her.

  When at last she managed to look up Rhona was standing above her on the edge of the defile, looking down with interest. ‘Oh dear,’ she said at last. ‘That was silly of you. I hope you can still walk. It would be awful to be marooned out here with a broken leg.’ She smiled.

  ‘Why?’ Andy cried. She tried to sit up and fell back with a groan. ‘For goodness’ sake, help me. Give me a hand.’

  Rhona appeared to consider the suggestion. ‘No, my dear. I don’t think you can expect that. Not after everything you have done to me. After all, you started all this by insisting on coming back to Kew. Creeping around in the garden, spying on me in the house. Mocking me. Trying to terrorise me.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ Andy cried. ‘How could I have? You’re imagining it!’

  But it was true, she knew it was true.