Meryn went through the events of the past weeks systematically. He mentioned no names, but he was pretty sure Dai knew he was talking about the woman at Sleeper’s Castle. Even more so when the policeman grinned and said, ‘We’re not talking about the ghosts here, I take it?’
Meryn shook his head. ‘That’s another story and one we can ignore for the moment. No, this woman is all too real.’
Dai frowned. ‘I know we agreed this was off the record, but I can’t ignore the information that there is a psychotic woman walking around with a knife the size of a scimitar, you know I can’t!’
‘I don’t want you to ignore it, but I want you to be very sure before you do anything.’ He sighed. Mentioning Dafydd ap Hywell and his bloody chisel and the energy generated by his fury was not going to be any kind of corroborative evidence. ‘I personally suspect the slightest thing could set this woman off on a killing spree, but I have no proof. Even Andy wonders if what happened to her on the mountain was a hallucination of some sort – she was, after all, in the first stages of hypothermia. And Mrs Wilson is cunning. You can bet you wouldn’t find the knife on her if you stopped her. There’d be no point arresting her and then bailing her, or giving her a warning and letting her go. That would be the worst possible scenario – and that’s what would happen, isn’t it? Assuming you’d even be allowed to arrest her in the first place if you tell your colleagues down at the station that the mad wizard on the hill gave you this information based on his gut feelings.’
Dai sighed. ‘I’m afraid you’re not wrong there.’
‘And if you were to drive past Sleeper’s Castle a couple of times a day that would only excite her. She would be thrilled to know we were taking her seriously.’
‘So, what do you want me to do?’
Meryn shook his head grimly. ‘I don’t know. Maybe just keep your eyes open. Maybe check her name. See if she’s been in any kind of trouble before. We have her car number if that helps.’ He was impressed that Bryn had had the foresight to write it down. ‘It’s a red sports car. Pretty distinctive.’
‘The number helps a lot. We can check it against various databases.’
‘Not just Swansea?’
‘Not just Swansea. I have noted your concerns, I promise. Leave it with me.’ Dai tapped the side of his nose.
In the kitchen at Sleeper’s Castle, Bryn and Sian were quietly talking. Upstairs Andy slept.
Time had passed again. Glyndŵr’s fortunes had waned even further. Edmund had returned to Owain’s court, which was still safely based at Harlech, frequently leaving on missions to help in a quest for allies, but his job was becoming harder all the time. Support was falling away as fast as, in 1400, it had built. Several times Edmund had come back to Sleeper’s Castle and to Catrin’s bed. Joan knew they were lovers, but she said nothing. Sufficient that he was safe. Until now.
Edmund had returned, late at night. Once more he was injured, though not so badly this time. His arm was swathed in dirty rags where a sword had caught him and he brought the worst of news. Harlech Castle had fallen; Margaret Glyndŵr and her family, including her daughter Catherine and the Mortimer grandchildren, all had been captured and taken to the Tower of London.
Joan and Catrin listened, white and anxious as he told them what had happened. Owain himself, his only surviving son Maredudd and a few others had escaped, and Edmund had gone with them.
‘And Tad?’ Catrin cried. ‘Where is my tad?’
Edmund shook his head. ‘He was with us earlier in the month in the castle, but he had gone, Cat, before they tightened the siege. I haven’t seen him for a while. Please God and all the saints he is safe somewhere.’
He gulped down the goblet of ale they had given him.
‘If the Lord Owain had asked me, I would have followed him to the ends of the earth, but he did one of his disappearing acts.’ He gave Cat and his sister a sad smile. ‘You know as well as I do that when he does that no one can find him until he chooses to be found. Before he vanished he told me to come back here and look after you; he told me to seek the king’s peace.’ He gave a rueful grimace. ‘I am not important enough to warrant being held for ransom; my reward would be a noose if they caught me. Better I hold up my hands. I am not alone. His followers are falling away fast. They have no choice. This war has been terrible for Wales and her people. Whichever side has rampaged through the countryside, the result has been the same: farms laid waste, crops burnt, houses destroyed, churches and abbeys pulled down, castles captured and recaptured, ruined and rebuilt over and over again. Everyone is too tired and too hungry.’ He took Catrin’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘And yet, after all that, if he calls me again I will go.’
‘How much money do you need for the fine?’ she whispered.
He scowled in anger. ‘I don’t know. I am going to plead with my father for my life. Maybe he will have a change of heart.’
Before he left, as they kissed one last time, Catrin pressed a small linen bag into his hands. ‘My necklace and my bracelet, and my mother’s rings. They will help pay your fine.’ She made to pull the silver ring from her finger but Edmund stopped her. ‘The prince himself gave you that. I would never take it.’ She did not remind him the prince had given the necklace and the bracelet too. Her father’s treasure, if it still existed, was hidden away and she had never found it.
The four armed men arrived unannounced at dawn. They kicked in the back door and dragged Joan out of her bed. When she screamed one of them punched her on the side of her head and left her unconscious on the floor. The other three ran up the stairs. They found Catrin in her chamber asleep and dragged her out of bed and down the stairs. They roped her wrists behind her back and threw her across one of their horses. The whole arrest had taken only a few minutes.
When Joan awoke the house was empty, the doors hanging open. Betsi was cowering in the barn. ‘They took her away without a word. When she screamed they tied a rag over her mouth.’ She was shivering with terror.
Joan stared round the house, her head still thumping with pain. Nothing had been taken or damaged as far as she could see, only the back door. The latch had been broken, the bar splintered and the bolts wrenched off with the force of the blow that had thrust it open.
She ran upstairs to Catrin’s bedchamber. The sheets were trailing off the bed where they had dragged her across the room. They hadn’t touched the coffers. ‘Who were they?’ she turned to Betsi, who had crept timidly up behind her.
‘Bedell’s men. From the castle.’
‘What?’
Betsi was pleating her skirt nervously between her fingers. ‘I recognised one of them. They have taken her as a witch.’
Joan stared at her. ‘But—’ she broke off. ‘Why?’
Betsi looked at her shoes. ‘She magicked the weather. And she helped the rebels.’
‘Did you do this, Betsi?’ Joan turned on her with such a look of fury the girl flinched. ‘Did you betray her?’
Betsi looked terrified. ‘No, not me. I would never.’
‘Then who?’
‘Megan has gone,’ Betsi whimpered and she burst into tears. ‘I don’t know if it was her.’
Joan stared about her in despair. ‘Go. Get out of here!’ she shouted.
Betsi fled. Joan waited until the patter of the girl’s shoes died away downstairs then she went over to the corner of the room. Catrin’s keys were hanging on the beam where she always put them at night. Joan went over to the coffer and knelt before it, inserting the key into the heavy padlock. She pushed back the lid against the wall and rummaged through the contents. There were rolls of parchment covered in small neat writing, three books, Catrin’s most treasured possessions, the tiny, exquisitely illuminated book of hours and though Joan did not know it, not reading either Welsh or English, a collection of the poems of Taliesin, the inheritance from her long-dead mother. With them was the small book Edmund had given her, inscribed by their author, Iolo Goch. Also there was the vellum folder containing d
ozens of loose pages of notes on herbs and cures. Catrin’s jewellery had gone. She sat back on her heels and thought. She hadn’t seen Catrin give the bag to Edmund, but maybe that was what she had done.
Climbing to her feet she turned and ran downstairs. Snatching up her cloak she went out. It took only minutes to catch the pony and saddle it. Climbing on its back from the gate she set its head towards her father’s farm.
She breathed a quick prayer to the Blessed Virgin that Edmund was still there. He would know what to do. She didn’t let herself even think about what would happen if he wasn’t there, if their father had thrown him out again.
They untied Catrin’s wrists and pushed her into a small chamber at the top of the gatehouse tower. As she tore the rag from her mouth she heard the door slam behind her and the huge old lock clank into place. She ran to the narrow window and peered out. She could see the town of Hay huddled below, beyond the castle walls, parts of it still ruined and burned, other parts rebuilt. It was market day and already the stalls were in place and the market vendors setting out their wares. She and Joan had planned to go today. She felt her eyes flood with tears. She was still in shock, still unable to work out what had happened. Why was she here? The man-at-arms had hissed at her that she was accused of witchcraft. That couldn’t be.
She was shivering violently and she hugged her arms around her body in an effort to warm herself. There were no shutters at the window and the ice-cold wind filled the chamber. She was still wearing nothing but her linen bed gown. Her feet were bare. She stared out again miserably. Beyond the town walls the river was hidden below its steep banks and overhanging trees, but beyond it she could see the once fertile valley, its fields laid waste by the last raid of passing soldiers. Had they been the Lord Owain’s men or the king’s? She wasn’t sure now. Both had rampaged up and down the valley so many times over the years.
Beyond the meadows the country rose steeply on the far side of the Wye Valley towards the bleak uplands of Elfael, shrouded now in heavy cloud.
She turned away from the window and went to sit in the corner on the floorboards. At least up here the floor wasn’t of stone. The room was bare, completely empty. There wasn’t even a pile of straw to burrow into like an animal. She pressed herself against the stone of the wall, hugging her knees, as the tears continued to flow.
She must have dozed. When she woke she could hear the noise of the market below in full swing through the window. The sky was blue now although no sunlight shone in to warm her. There were heavy footsteps outside the door she realised. That was what had woken her as they tramped up the stairs. She heard the key in the lock and watched as the door swung open. Two men stood there. One she recognised as the man-at-arms who had carried her from her bed at dawn.
‘On your feet. The constable wants to speak to you,’ he said.
She managed to stand up and pushed her hair back from her face. There was little dignity in being taken before anyone in your nightgown, hair uncovered, feet bare, but that was the way it was. She raised her chin a fraction and followed them down the spiral staircase.
As she stood before him she recognised John Bedell, the rich merchant and landowner, and a fair man by all accounts, who had known her father and even had them sing in his house. The man was her grandparents’ neighbour in the Wye Valley, but what use was that knowledge now? Her grandparents had never shown the slightest recognition that she even existed. No doubt their judgement and lack of interest in their granddaughter’s fate would be justified when they learned of the charges against her.
Even in the warmth of the great hall beside the huge fire she found she could not stop shaking. Bedell was sitting at a table which was covered in documents and as he looked up she saw a flash of compassion before his eyes hardened again. ‘Find her a cloak and shoes or she will die of cold before she can be brought to trial!’ he snapped at her guards. One of them bowed and hurried away.
‘You know why you have been brought here?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply.
‘A warrant has been issued for your arrest on charges of treason, witchcraft and of …’ he looked at a parchment which was lying on the table in front of him, ‘being one of the tempestarii, that being a practitioner of weather magic. It has been stated that you were in league with the traitor Owain Glyndŵr and taught him the art of calling down rain storms and lightning and fogs to the detriment and consternation of the king’s men, causing the weather in Wales to conspire against him.’ He looked up at her for one second and she thought she saw a flash of humour in his eyes. ‘These are serious charges, Catrin.’ He sighed. ‘You have been dealing with the devil.’ He crossed himself piously. ‘I am not able to deal with them here in Hay, so you will be taken to the assize. Until an escort can be arranged, you will stay here as my prisoner in the castle.’
He glanced behind her as the man-at-arms reappeared. He had a warm cloak over his arm and a pair of slippers. He handed them to her. The shoes were far too big, but at least they were warmer than standing on the bare flagstones of the great hall. The cloak was heavy and thick wool. She pulled it round her gratefully and at last she managed to speak.
‘You have known me most of my life, John Bedell. How can you look me in the eye and charge me like this? I am your neighbour! I was coming to the market today.’ She pointed towards the great doors, which were closed. Even through the walls they could hear the shouts from the street below, the bellowing of cattle and even the cheery notes of a flute and a fiddle. ‘Who made this charge?’ She fixed him with a steady gaze.
He glanced down at the document in front of him. ‘There is no word of who made the charges, Catrin. I am sorry, I can tell you nothing. The warrant came from the bishop. His office deals with accusations of Satanic practice, the king’s assize deals with treason. You should know,’ he paused, ‘that these charges carry the death penalty if you are found guilty.’
She gasped.
‘I will see that you have a bed and food while you are here,’ he went on. ‘It will be some time before they send for you. There is much distraction in the countryside, as you know, and the next assize is not until Lent next year.’ He looked at the man-at-arms behind her. ‘Take her back to her cell.’
They brought her clothes and a truckle bed with a mattress and blankets, a stool and a small table. There was a chamber pot and a pitcher of water and a pewter mug. Later they brought her a bowl of pottage and a lump of fresh bread.
‘I need to speak to your constable again,’ she said to the man who brought the latter. ‘Will you tell him, please.’
‘He’s gone home,’ the man replied.
‘Home?’ she echoed.
He gave a grim smile. ‘You don’t think he lives here, do you? This castle has a garrison under his command, but my officer is in charge. The constable goes home to his comfortable house when his duties here are done. He has left you in our care.’
She shrank back at the words. His eyes were all over her. ‘Then I must speak to your officer,’ she said as strongly as she could.
He gave a small bow. ‘Yes, my lady.’ The words were heavy with irony. ‘I will convey your message. But I doubt he will find time before tomorrow. He has gone to the inn. One of them. Maybe all of them.’ He laughed.
It was a relief when he turned away and left her alone, locking the door behind him.
‘Catrin!’ Andy whispered her name. ‘I am here with you. Can you see me?’
Catrin was huddled on the bed miserably. She had tasted the pottage, which was cold and greasy, and pushed it aside. She had nibbled the bread and then turned to the bed as the only place where it was possible to get warm. As night fell the room grew darker and more and more chilled.
‘I’ll stay if you like,’ Andy whispered again. She moved closer to the bed and put out her hand. ‘Maybe I can help.’
Catrin did not move but Andy sensed she was listening. ‘I wish I could get you out of here,’ she went on. ‘But maybe I can fetch help. Maybe I can find
Edmund for you.’
Catrin made a little moan. She huddled down under the blankets, pulling them over her head, and Andy heard her beginning to cry.
She could do no good here.
Raising her hand she tried to click her fingers. Her hands were stiff with cold. She could make no sound. Panicking, she turned towards the door. The wood was iron-hard beneath her hands; the walls as solid as the stone they were built of. She pushed and battered at them for a long time before she gave up. She was as much of a prisoner as Catrin.
‘Andy! Andy, wake up.’ The voice was gently persistent. ‘Can you hear me? Wake up.’
She had been hearing it for some time, ignoring it, too panicked to pay attention.
‘Andy! Come back to me. Listen.’ It was becoming sterner now, more insistent.
She had stopped beating on the walls of her prison. Part of her didn’t want to leave Catrin. It was unfair. It was horrific. That locked door was Catrin’s death sentence. And, dear God, perhaps it was hers as well.
She sniffed miserably, wiping the tears from her eyes, and sniffed again. There was a strong sweet pungent smell in her nose. It was finding its way into her dream, into her brain. It was bringing her back. Illogically she was fighting to stay asleep, yet she wanted to escape, she wanted desperately to leave that cold cell and come home.
The urge to stay asleep was growing less compelling, it was lifting.
Slowly she opened her eyes.
Meryn was standing over her. He looked at her sternly. ‘Why did you not come back when I told you?’
‘I didn’t want to.’ She waved her arm wildly, knocking something which was lying on her chest. ‘What is it? What was that?’ She pushed herself up on her elbows, confused and shivering. She was lying in her own bed.
‘Rosemary.’ He stooped and picked up the large piece of the herb, which he had held under her nose. He brushed it again, releasing more of its bitter-sweet scent. ‘The next best thing to smelling salts, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you rosemary has a reputation for warding off bad dreams and night terrors. While you may choose not to listen to your ears, your nose transfers the message straight to your brain.’