“Lady Joan,” Elizabeth said patiently, “forgive me for saying this. You must know that difficult things are asked of all of us, every day, without our consent. If we turn away from them because they’re difficult, or because we’re frightened . . . or because we seek an easier way . . . we make ourselves a little bit smaller – a little bit less in the eyes of the world. Sometimes people might make themselves so small that they disappear!”
A flush rose to Joan’s cheeks. This was the second person in a day to take aim at her character. Elizabeth, however, diplomatically turned the barb away at the last moment.
“James,” she said, “is in danger of disappearing. Perhaps only you can stop that from happening.”
Joan pressed her hands against her eyes, trying to block out a future of frightening possibilities.
“Do you love him?” she heard Elizabeth ask and she nodded confidently; of course! “Well then,” Elizabeth continued. “It seems to me that love creates a duty . . . and also a right. A duty to persevere – to be deserving – and a right to expect the same in return.”
“I . . . I don’t . . . !”
“I’m sorry. I only mean that if, in pushing James toward his destiny – even if he turned away from you – perhaps your love would have been well spent.”
“Yes, yes! I mean no! I mean . . .! I just have to . . . !”
She didn’t know what she meant or what she was to do. So it was just as well that their talk was interrupted at that point by a furious knocking at their door.
“They’re back!” a voice shouted. “They’re back! Sir Cyril and Sir Angus! They’ve been embattled by brigands in the forest! Everyone’s gathering in the Great Hall to hear the story!”
Chapter 14 – Sir Roland’s Decisions
The whole of the day, Roland had been agonising over his morning discussion with Sir Perceval de Coucy. Vague connections, fears and half resolutions scraped through his mind, like thistles through a salad. He’d asked the man a straight enough question, he thought, about Lady Joan de Beaufort’s agenda – and he’d gotten nothing but impertinent French froth in reply. Clearly, what he should have asked was how that damned Frenchie had come to be travelling with Lady Joan in the first place!
The French, after all, were known opportunists! Even here in the Marches! Hadn’t they convinced the Scots to turn a blind eye to their piracy off the coast? Hadn’t they supported Owain Glyndwr’s Welsh rascals? Hadn’t they welcomed Scottish knights to France, to take up arms against England? Weren’t they forever stirring someone else’s pot? As far as Roland was concerned, he’d trust his hounds with a slab of mutton before he’d trust a Frenchman!
How, then, had it come about that one of them – no, two of them (counting Perceval’s pointless little wife!) had landed on his doorstep? And that he himself – a man of his stature and importance – had been foolish enough to ask the man’s opinion! And was it simply his accursed bad luck that a colony of Scots had washed up under his roof at the same time? What was going on? Roland’s head spun with dimly perceived possibilities, none of which he could quite draw into focus.
He coached himself to be methodical, to sift out what he could be sure of! De Coucy, for instance! A young knight – a bastard son – twenty-three, maybe twenty-four years of age; newly married; travelling with his teen-aged wife. His famous father – killed in a God-forsaken Crusade to who-knew-where – had been dead so long that Perceval could scarcely have known him.
But names, of course (and rightly so!) long outlive the man, and the de Coucy name had obviously gotten Perceval into the court in London! And there (one could only guess) he’d seen the opportunity to use his slippery French ways to gain the confidence of Joan de Beaufort! Why, was anyone’s guess; but How, Roland could easily imagine.
“Oh, Sir Perceval!” (Joan, he imagined, would coo like a pigeon to get her way around men.) “Oh Sir Perceval! I have it in mind to travel to the wild and empty Welsh Marches to view the most backward and ignorant people in all England! Have you considered such a trip for yourself?”
“Why, Lady Joan!” (Roland could picture the Frenchman slobbering on Joan’s pretty little hand and winking like a tinker with a tic.) “It has been my fondest dream! May I polish your horse’s arse for you as a token of my thanks?”
Roland shook his head to clear away the vision. This was getting him nowhere. It simply meant that Perceval could be just exactly what he said he was – a courtesy escort. And maybe Joan was doing exactly what she said she was doing – making a pilgrimage to holy shrines in the West Country. Roland began to pace the room, grinding his teeth all the while, unable to tolerate such an image in his mind. Not of Sir Perceval – not of any Frenchie! They were all out for something! So what other angle was there?
Roland turned his mind to the de Coucy lands which were, of course, in France! Everyone knew that! And France was an enemy! Except that a growing number of Frenchies now supported King Henry’s claim to the French throne! In which case they were not enemies! Sir Roland thumped his forehead and kicked a stool across the room. Give him a sword over politics, any day. Slice off an arm and you have an outcome; enter negotiations and you may as well lie down in a bog.
Suddenly, however, and briefly – like a spark from a flint – a connection revealed itself to him. Perceval might be travelling with Lady Joan, but his true connection was with the Scots! Of course! Because, while many French supported England’s ambitions, many opposed them as well! And who could the ‘opposition’ Frenchies look to for help? Certainly not the Welsh! With Glyndwr gone, they were a spent force! No, they’d look to the Scots, who were already in it up to their bagpipe necks! Because, obviously, once England swallowed France (as it inevitably would) – Scotland would be the next morsel on the table! Sunk! Spitted! Gutted and quartered! It would be their end! To survive, they must keep the French pot boiling!
“Hah!” Roland shouted, and swung a fist through the empty air. “So that’s their game!”
He strode happily to the window and stood, his feet spread and his hands on his hips, grinning and brimming with self-satisfaction. It only slowly occurred to him that this broad vision didn’t entirely solve his dilemma. He still couldn’t imagine what mischief one Frenchie and three Scottish women – politically insignificant women – girls, really – might think to attempt in Clun! Under his very nose!
Did they take him for a fool? Could they be hoping to provoke the sort of trouble in the West Country – his country – that there was in the north? That lunatic, Archibald Douglas, and his endless harrying of English garrisons! But that crafty old rogue survived only because he had a border he could run to for cover! In Shropshire, there was no such cover!
Roland decided this: First, he would cunningly seem to accept Perceval’s fancy obfuscations. Same with the Scots’ feigned innocence. But he would set his spies to work. Or Margaret could do that. The serving girls, the kitchen staff; whoever! Servants were the first to learn anything new in a castle anyhow. Let their gossip be useful, for a change! And second, he would quietly start to rally an army of his own!
Now here was a task that suited his temperament! If there was to be trouble (and what a glorious prospect that was!) how many men would he need? And where would he find them? At one time in the not so distant past, Clun Castle had been one of the best-manned garrisons in the Welsh marches. In the days of Glyndwr’s raids, knights by the score and yeomen by the hundred had been billeted here, ready to march out on virtually no notice at all! Until the rebel, as was inevitable, had lost his magic for winning! Once he disappeared, so too did the English soldiers. So what was left?
There were always peasants, of course! Line them up; use them up! But then again, the cursed plague years had carried off untold thousands of them! Some villages had been nearly emptied! On his own orders, Samuel Rowe, had closed up this very castle and waited for the wailing in Clun to cease. When silence falls, said the message he’d sent to Rowe, and you’re sure the dying has finished, you
can open the gates again. But nearly all the fighting men were gone by then. Only children – only the green and untested – remained.
And finally, of course, even they had been drained away to fight in the King’s ever-lasting French wars! But (Sir Roland smashed a fist into his palm) there was only so much a loyal vassal could contribute! Especially with proof virtually to hand that England’s enemies were gathering in the West Country!
He made a second decision. He would speak with the steward, Samuel Rowe – that quiet and watchful little counter of hay stooks! Rowe, he thought disdainfully, was like a giant ear, soaking up information the way a trencher of bread soaks up gravy. He would know of skilled fighters in the village, certainly – men who’d survived the wars. But more importantly, he knew the castle and its defences. If it was true that vipers had come slithering around the rock pile, well then . . . Rowe would know how to plug the holes. Together, they would make preparations.
By this time, the sun had set and the rain was pounding down outside. Two decisions had been made inside an hour – more than he would ordinarily be called on to make in a month! He lay down, exhausted, and drifted nearly into sleep. Then, as often happens, the connections he had already made were joined by another! In his mind’s eye, he saw a rider approaching out of the mist. No. It was two riders. It was like . . . No, it was, the two missing knights! Sirs Cyril and Angus! Roland sat bolt upright. Where were those men? Neither was a local man. One was English, riding with the Frenchie! The other was a Scot! It was hardly likely that they knew each other! Yet they’d ridden off together, like loonies, into an unknown forest! What in God’s name was their role in all this? Was there a force already gathered in the forest, waiting for word to attack?
Damn it all to hell! If treachery was afoot in the Marches, he had to protect himself! Now! Today! The time for action had arrived! And on the instant, he made a third decision. The priest, Father Reginald, was meant to leave for London in the morning. But Shrewsbury was nearer. And the sheriff was there, with soldiers! A couple of days, God willing, would bring them to Clun: for which time Roland could surely defend this dilapidated pile of stones! And perhaps wring the truth out of someone amongst his unwelcome ‘guests’! How wonderful if, when the sheriff arrived, there were prisoners to hand over! And songs to be made up in praise of Roland Lenthall, defender of the Marches!
The thought of Cyril and Angus was the last candle lighted on Roland’s journey toward understanding. It was not a bright light. Beyond, in fact, the darkness remained absolute. He needed patience and information but was short on both. But his determination not to be caught sitting on his arse in a time of danger already felt to him like some kind of small victory.
It was at that very moment that the serving boy tapped on his door to inform him of the fantastic tale unfolding in the Great Hall.
Chapter 15 – Tom the Sharpener
Tom the sharpener knew knights. He knew them better than anyone in Clun would have guessed. He knew, for instance, that they must be seen to be immune to discomfort – heedless of need. He knew that the two in his company had walked miles in the cold rain, with hunger gnawing at their guts, exhaustion numbing their limbs and humiliation riding on their backs. He knew that they’d as soon kill him with their teeth as have him appear to be their saviour, or even their equal. Thus, he had wisely chosen to fall behind Sirs Angus and Cyril when they arrived at the castle, in the dusk, in the rain.
He would enter soon enough, himself, to return Dobbin to her stable and to bed himself down in an adjacent stall. But first he would give the knights time to adequately distance themselves from their lowly companion. There was a house in the village with an ale stake out front, signifying the premise of a brewer. Perhaps he could eat. Food and ale and a fire would at least chase the cold from his bones and might even revive his capacity for thought.
Gwenith was alone in the house. Maude had not returned from the castle and Gwilym had not returned from his foray into the forest, to search for Madeleine and Anwen. Indeed, Gwenith had begun to wonder if an evil eye had somehow singled out her family! Perhaps she should walk out through the rain to find Father Reginald; ask him for a prayer! The one sure thing was that there could never be too many prayers.
It was from this deep and gloomy reverie that she was roused, by the sudden loud knock on her door. In the gloaming, a dark, cloaked outline of a man, unrecognisable in the dim light, hunched its back against the rain. What now, she asked herself! What next?
“Good evening, mistress,” the figure said, bowing ever so slightly, so that Gwenith wondered briefly if one of the castle gentlemen had lost his way. Whoever he was, he clearly expected admittance. But the hour was late and Gwenith was alone and she had lost children on her mind. “Is there ale to be had, mistress?” he asked softly. “Or must a poor pedlar stand in the dark and drink the rain?”
Only then did Gwenith recognise him as the sharpener who travelled with the Cunning Woman! Even then, she hesitated, considered turning him away.
“My ‘usband is not at ‘ome. Ah, but I s’pose there’re souls enough lost in the night! Come in. I’ll find ‘ee somethin’.”
It was not an inn in any large sense of the word. It was a room, small and choked with smoke which piled up like a noxious sea fog against the thatch of the roof. The smoke hole permitted wisps of it to escape, but most would eventually add itself to the already thick and greasy film that covered the walls and thatch and furnishings. The earthen floor was beaten hard, covered by a scattering of reeds from the riverbank and holding little other than a rough table under which lay the pig, which lifted its head to look at the new arrival, sighed deeply and flopped back onto its side.
“A thousand thanks!” Tom said warmly. “I wasn’t sure of the hour. A brisk night, is it not?”
He took his cloak off carefully, so as not to shake too much water within the house, then turned his gaze full on Gwenith.
“Hallo!” he said through a broad smile. “I think we’ve met! I’m Tom. Have I sharpened one of your knives? Or no! Was it you I saw yesterday, with the fortune-teller? Gaining some strange information, I don’t doubt Mistress . . .?”
“Gwenith,” she answered. Ordinarily she would not admit a stranger at night when she was alone in the house. But his voice at the door was so warm; it almost took the chill off the evening. And his smile seemed to diminish the foreboding bleakness of the night. “I was wi’ the cunning Woman, true enough! Though it weren’t by me own choosin’, I can tell ye! ‘Ere, sit ye’self down. Ye can warm yer feet on the pig if you’ve a mind.”
She set about the business of filling a mug for him while Tom, settling on a bench, allowed the warm fuggy air to slump into him. He ran his hands through his hair and became aware of the moisture in his boots. By the time he realised the mug was before him, Gwenith had already retreated to the fire, to tend to her pot of mash.
“I don’t suppose that’s a fine lamb stew, you’re stirrin’ there, is it Gwenith? Or maybe a bit o’ tripe wi’ onions and beans? Somethin’ that could quell the argument in a man’s stomach?”
She shook her head and smiled. “It’s a mash for the ale. But I can give ye a cold oat-cake an’ a slice o’ mutton!” She rolled her eyes toward a haunch of meat, hanging in the smoke near the rafters.
“You are a saintly woman, Gwenith! I promise to eat quickly and go. Not to be blamed for keepin’ you from your work.” As she climbed on a stool to reach the meat, he said, “Your husband’s the reeve, Gwenith. Am I right in thinking that?”
“He is! A very important man is Gwilym! No one shirks their duties when ‘e’s about!”
“Ah! Excellent! And tell me, Gwenith! As a poor traveller, I’m thinking that there might be rogues and thieves aplenty here in the Marches. Does the village suffer much from brigands?”
Gwenith, as keeper of the ale-house, had been privy to debates on every topic, from law and order to the birthing of lambs. She pursed her lips and tried to remember incidents that wo
uld fit the description.
“Used to be, I guess, when me girls were little! Some fearful times, we ‘ad! Slaughterin’ an’ terrorisin’! But ye know, we don’ get much worse ‘n a bit o’ pig-stealin’ an’ such these days! Runaway boys, an’ the like. Not much left to steal in Clun, I s’pose! Whereas some years back, there was lots o’ traffic on the Ridgeway. And so much money! Sometimes ye could find a coin jus’ lyin’ in the roadway! Jus’ lyin’ there! But since the uprisin’ was put down, seems we’re all ruined! The Welsh are ruined, the Marches are ruined. Clun is ruined.”
“Ah,” Tom nodded sardonically. “The spoils of victory.”
Gwenith heard the disparaging tone in his voice and looked at him quizzically.
He said, “It’s just, I’m thinkin’ . . . good times, bad times . . . they come and they go, don’t they? And sometimes, what we’re told is winning, actually turns out to be very like losing! Has it ever seemed like that to you, Gwenith?”
She sawed at the ham while Tom gazed wearily into his ale, clearly expecting no answer. But after a moment, she said, “Ye know what I wish? I wish . . . it could sometimes be t’other way ‘round. Ye know? So when it feels like yer always losin’ . . . ye could be . . . ye could turn out to be actually winnin’!”
“Ah now!” Tom grinnned. “Wouldn’t that be a startling good and surprising outcome? Yes indeed! In fact, if you’ve no objection, Gwenith, I’m goin’ to add that wish to me own little list. Though if it comes true for you, I’ll be as happy as if it came true for meself!”
She nodded, her thoughts whirling with fears for her lost family. Again a silence fell between them until Gwenith suddenly found herself speaking through tears.
“While we’re makin’ wild wishes, then, maybe ye’d join me in this ‘un. Wishin’ that sometimes, someone who seems lost, might actually, really, be found!” She was thinking of Madeleine and Anwen, gone now for two days and a night, with a second night coming on. She had tried to imagine them, happy, warm, safe and protected in some other place – but she couldn’t. What other place was there? She wiped tears onto her apron and Tom looked at her with wide eyes.