“It seems the two knights who . . . ‘yielded’ . . . their swords and horses to your care, came back to Clun with tales of being ambushed by the Plant Owain! For Sir Roland Lenthall, that name – Plant Owain – after all the years now of peace. . . and having his knights set upon by them . . . at least in the knights’ tellin’ of it . . . well! You know! What could be better for such an ambitious man than to fight the last battle in the quieting of the Welsh Marches? Such a man’d rather give away one of his own children than miss out on that opportunity!”
The clamber at the table was instant.
“You an’ yer big mouth!” Jeremy barked at Silent Richard of Wrexham. “Ye had to drag up that ol’ chestnut! Now look at the mess!”
“Shut you up, ye squinty old beggar!”
“We’ll have to be movin’ from ‘ere now! They’ll be on us!” said another.
“Where do we go next? Is it back to the caves, then?”
“Arrgh! Saxon nobility! Capturin’ little girls!”
“All you could expect of ‘em, the poxy mongrels!”
In the midst of it all, Wild Jack Sorespot sat motionless, his mouth hanging as though the hinge had been broken. He was picturing the tiny refusal of Anwen as she stood over him, denying the wolf that would have taken out his throat. He touched his chest, felt the charm Anwen had made for him – St John’s Wort – to keep away evil spirits. All around the table similar talismans were being drawn from shirts and pockets. Had she made them for everyone else and forgotten herself and Madeleine? Gradually the table fell silent.
“Will he torture ‘em?” Jack asked, his voice unexpectedly firm.
Men shook their heads on all sides of him. Surely not! Not even an Englishman could do such a thing! To children? Not if he’s in his right mind! It was Owain who took charge.
“First things first, Jack. What we need to know is, would they ever be able to point the way to us? Even if he did such a cowardly thing? Brenton? You guided them. The way is wild and unmarked. What do you think? Could Madeleine or Annie find us again?”
“They wouldn’t,” said Richard. “Not them girls!”
“No,” said Owain. “Of course not. But if they were frightened, Richard? Or hurt? In fear of their lives? Or their family’s lives? It wouldn’t be fair of us . . . to count on them . . . to be soldiers.”
“I don’ know!” said Brenton. “They didn’ pay much attention, I think. An’ I took ‘em ‘ome on a round about path, so we’d come to the village from the north. In case anyone saw us.”
“Good man. So we can guess that we might be safe for awhile. ‘Til Roland gathers his wits and his forces and starts scouring the countryside. Which he likely will do. In time. We’ll have a little space to make our plans. We’ll have to leave this valley, of course.”
The greatness of even that small challenge – fading away into the wilderness, as he’d done a hundred times in the past – was apparent in his face, in the slump of his posture. He picked up Myfanwy’s packet of herbs and turned it in his hands. He looked around the table, catching the eye of each man in turn. “The Plant Owain,” he murmured. “Children of Owen.” A laugh bubbled up in his throat. “What father was ever given such a family?” Shy smiles; the wag of heads. He was as much father to them as any could remember – the man they had turned to for advice and leadership for more years than any cared to count. “Perhaps it’s time, at last, for the children to leave home – to go your separate ways,” he said.
And though they all waved the suggestion away, with their ‘No, no’s’ and their ‘Surely not’s’, they all knew it was a thought that had to be considered.
Tom began again to speak of the amnesty. No need to run and hide, he pointed out – at least, for no longer than it would take court officials to travel from London to the Marches. He painted them a picture of travelling to Shrewsbury, sending word to London, waiting in comfort for the bureaucracy to rumble out its official forgiveness.
As he spoke, Wild Jack Sorespot rose, scowling, from his seat, limped heavily to the corner where his mattress lay – where he’d been recuperating for the days since his leg was torn. He began throwing things together; stumped back to the table for his spoon and a chunk of bread; back to the corner, where he stuffed his few possessions into a shoulder bag. The others watched, their interest gradually shifting from Tom’s argument to Jack’s actions.
When all fell silent, Jeremy asked softly, “What are ye about, lad?”
Jack turned a bleak gaze on them. “I’m going to Clun.”
Roger Ringworm was on his feet immediately, throwing together his own few things, making it clear that Jack would not be leaving without him.
“You all go to Shrewsbury. You done yer fightin’. This ain’t yer fight ‘ere. But I’m goin’ to Clun. Me ‘n’ Rog’. We gonna get them girls outta there.”
“Jack,” said Tom sympathetically. He was eager to regain everyone’s attention, to secure some agreement that would see his father, at least, given a chance to finish his days in better care than these men could give. “Think carefully about this! You boys – neither one of you’s a soldier! And Clun’s a fortified castle! Ask Owain! Ask ‘im about his own siege of that castle! What’s it been – fourteen – fifteen years?” He looked around the table for confirmation, but no one seemed to be listening. “He’ll let the girls go, Jack! Of his own accord! Soon as he realises they’ve nothing to tell!”
“He’s goin’ to send ‘em to Shrewsbury,” said Brenton softly. “That’s what the fortune-teller said. The sheriff’ll come and take ‘em away. They could be charged wi’ treason if the courts decide they’re keepin’ mum by choice . . . about. . . the Plant Owain.”
“It’s a foolishness,” said Tom. “Why would the courts decide such a thing?”
“Them girls . . .” croaked Silent Richard fondly.
“Accepting the amnesty would take all the argument out of it!” said Tom in his most persuasive voice. “Word could be sent from Shrewsbury. Roland would have no choice but to let them go!”
“Maybe not soon enough!” cried Wild Jack Sorespot. “It’s my fault, don’t ye see? It’s a thing I started! If I’d jus’ let ‘em be . . . ‘stead o’ bringin’ ‘em into the forest! I shouldna done that! They’d be . . . !”
“You can’t blame yourself, Jack,” said Owain. “We’re none of us just our own story. What we do – it’s all part o’ something bigger. Thing is – we don’ always get to find out what that something is! A real thing to consider, Jack, is . . . Sir Roland would kill you!” He paused to let it sink in. “Both of you, Jack. Without so much as a thought! Marcher Lords are laws unto themselves, ye know that!”
“Talk talk talk,” said Jeremy, stretching his arms above his head in an exaggerated gesture. “Meself, I think the boys ‘ave a fine idea there.” He winked slyly at Owain. “In fact, I think I can see meself wanderin’ along wi’ ‘em! Tomorra, I think, eh boys? ‘S Hallowe’en tomorra, ye know? I’ll get in a visit wi’ me sister! Sure enough, she’ll think the dead’ve come back to life, when she claps an eye on me!” He laughed and, again, banged his palm on the table. “Good!” he said. “Now! A story has just occurred to me. Let me tell it and see what youse think!”
Chapter 29 – The Importance of Sisters
Maude’s career as a chambermaid never really got off the ground. Within an hour of her arrival in the elegant chamber, she’d overheard Sir Perceval’s report to the Ladies Joan and Marie, revealing the extraordinary happenings in the castle. The two peasant girls – lost then found – now imprisoned and guarded. And most unexpectedly, Sir Cyril – the knight who had travelled with Lady Joan from London to this remote corner of the kingdom – had been commandeered to serve as guard of those same prisoners!
Maude’s concern for her sisters, coupled with all else that had happened to her, resulted in a wailing collapse and, with no more preliminaries than that, the great curtain that existed to separate the common folk from the aristocratic, was pushed a
side. To Perceval’s astonishment, he found himself no longer in the company of two elegant young women and their servant, but rather of three teen-aged girls whose huddled discussion forcibly excluded him. The girls became instantly absorbed in that most feminine of exercises – the sharing of sympathy and comfort – an exercise which, happily for him, would soon give him some further opportunity to stir the pot of English politics.
In short order Lady Joan resolved to put to the test, the very next morning, the unquestionable power of her social status. If, after all, the king’s niece could not have her way, then who indeed could? At the very least, she felt, she could gain some reassurance for Maude and, as the medium for gaining that reassurance, she selected Perceval. The sun was barely up on the new day when he was sent to find and view the prisoners – to see if a way could be contrived by which Maude might speak to them.
“And if I am refused?” he asked quite reasonably.
“Do not be refused, Sir Perceval!” Lady Joan instructed, still vastly over-confident about the power of her name. “It is Sir Cyril! He would not dare refuse! Simply demand!”
Cyril’s humiliating early morning encounter with Sir Roland was scarcely half an hour past when Perceval came whistling jauntily up the stairs. As a result, Cyril was alert, on his guard and putting on his most menacing face when Perceval approached.
“Sir Cyril!” said Perceval, making a show of pleasure in the meeting.
“Sir Perceval,” scowled Cyril, making absolutely no pretence of pleasure at all.
“You are guarding the prisoners, no?”
“I am guarding the prisoners, yes.” Besides being humiliated by Roland, insulted by the menial task of guarding children and made wretched by an aching neck, Cyril had no time at all for this particular Frenchman.
“They have made no attempt . . .” Perceval smiled broadly, “. . . to overpower you?”
“What do you want, Perceval?” Cyril swung his bulk to face the slighter man.
“I want to speak with the prisoners.”
“No.”
“No? Are they so dangerous? Or am I not to be trusted speaking with English peasants, Sir Cyril?”
“Sir Roland’s orders. No one in, no one out.”
“No one? Not a soul? Am I to believe the prisoners’ needs are not being met, Sir Cyril? This would be too barbaric, surely!”
“What you believe is no concern of mine, Perceval. But to set your mind at ease, Lady Margaret’s chambermaid brings what’s needed. Her and her alone. So you see? We English are at least as civilised as you Froggies.”
Cyril would have liked nothing better than for Sir Perceval to take offence, perhaps issue a challenge. He was bored, it suddenly occurred to him – bored with guard duty, bored with nurse-maiding spoiled children and arrogant foreigners, bored with the Welsh Marches. A quarrel would liven things up very agreeably indeed. That, however, was not on Sir Perceval’s list of things to do – not this day, at any rate.
“I shall report that good news to my fellow . . . Froggies . . . when I return to France,” Perceval said, smiling lightly. “I think they will be as joyful as I to learn it.”
He gave a sardonic salute, and turned on his heel. As he walked away, he heard Cyril dredge up a wad of phlegm to send, flopping and splattering onto the floor, like a bite of an over ripe tomato.
‘So the chambermaid is the key!’ he was thinking, as he strolled back to the impatient threesome who waited in his chambers. The flirtatious little Susan who served Sir Roland and Lady Margaret! ‘Her and her alone,’ Cyril had said. Apparently Sir Roland was viewing the imprisonment of two little peasant girls as a serious affair! That fact alone would have been sufficient to stir Perceval’s interest. The insulting bluster of Sir Cyril added further provocation.
Back in his chambers, he relayed the contents and tone of his conversation with Sir Cyril. It was immediately clear to the three travellers that, while the obstinate Sir Cyril might not easily be gotten around, Susan could be a different story. Perhaps her aid could be enlisted.
“I could seduce her!” Perceval suggested happily. “She would get me the key, I think!”
Marie and Joan both gazed at him levelly and he shrugged a good-natured shrug. “Perhaps not, though,” he smiled. “I think I am too spoiled by my beautiful new wife to find joy in such exercise.”
What if, they then wondered – what if Susan could be incapacitated in some way? If so, Maude might be put forth as her replacement in serving the prisoners! Maude was able to assure them that Roland would have no way of knowing that she, Anwen and Madeleine were sisters. Really no reason to care, even if he did know!
“Buckthorn’d do it!” Maude further contributed. She was astonishing even herself at her ability to speak out in the presence of such fabled and fabulous individuals. When they looked at her questioningly, she explained, “Bark! From a buckthorn! Soak it, cook it a little. My ma’s given it to me ‘n’ Maddie ‘n’ Annie for the aches. Gives you terrible squits (beggin’ yer pardon).”
“Squits?” they asked in unison.
“Squits,” she nodded while flushing with embarrassment. They coaxed her into explaining and, once it was clear to them that the concoction served as a powerful laxative, the idea delighted them.
“But I know someone much more deserving of squits,” Perceval laughed, savouring both the word and the prospect. “If we are to make a gift of squits, why not make it a gift to Sir Cyril?”
The sense of that was instantly clear. The man could hardly remain at his post while his insides were turning to liquid. Maude and her sisters could then, at least, speak through the door. With that germ of an idea setting up camp in their minds, the elements of a plan, like a slow caravan of camels, followed inevitably on.
The first problem was where to get some bark of the buckthorn. Maude’s mother would know where to collect it, but the need was more urgent than that. It was Perceval’s idea to try the fortuneteller, already renowned in the village for her herbaceous cures. He would go to her himself. If he were stopped and questioned on the way, he would be armed with a story about being sent for a remedy for a cold that was threatening Lady Joan. The change in the weather, he would say.
Assuming that the fortuneteller would have buckthorn amongst her stocks, how then would they administer it to Sir Cyril? Anything taken to him by one of them would now be instantly suspicious. It was decided that Perceval’s charm might yet by put to use, not on Susan but on the head cook, Jenny Talbot. Her fondness for Perceval had already been well noted. Indeed, by Maude’s own report, Mrs Talbot was keeping a pie for him! Perhaps, given the straightforward truth of their need, she would be willing to help Maude out with a little short-term mayhem to the bowels of a knight!
* * * *
In short, within the hour, Perceval had been to see Myfanwy, had taken the resulting small packet and his most disarming smile to Jenny Talbot and Jenny Talbot had placed a small pot, with buckthorn and water, on the edge of the enormous stove to simmer. Within two hours, the large mid-morning meal had been served in the Great Hall and Susan had collected the food prepared for the prisoners as well as that prepared for their guard.
It could not have been anticipated that, on the climb to the top of the keep, Susan would help herself to a deep draught of Cyril’s unusually bitter wine. Before the third hour was passed, both she and Cyril would find themselves rushing for seats in the garderobe where their groans would mingle like the howls of banshees.
(“Serves the greedy little sow right!” would be the considered opinion of Jenny Talbot.)
Neither could it have been anticipated that such anger would be set to seething in the breast of Sir Perceval when he heard, through the prisoners’ door, that Anwen had been flung to the floor, injured and that the bleeding had not entirely stopped.
“This must end!” would be the response of de Coucy. “No more beating of small girls!”
A third thing that could not have been anticipated was the decision ma
de by Elizabeth Douglas and the ladies Effemy and Annabel. By the time they joined the rest of the household in the Great Hall for the noon meal they, along with their newly re-focussed knight, Sir Angus, had begun to devise a plan of escape from Clun Castle.
“The situation is worsening!” would be the reasoning of Elizabeth Douglas. “There’s danger in the air! I can feel it!”
And a fourth thing that could not have been anticipated was the arrival of the ancient, toothless fossil of a man who would beg entry to the castle in the late afternoon and make his unescorted way to the kitchens. There he would startle the wits out of Jenny Talbot.
“Now isn’t it a fine afternoon!” Jeremy Talbot would laugh, smiling his gummy smile. “Happy Hallowe’en, sister!”
Chapter 30 – October 31
October 31. The last day before All Hallows Eve – the night of the year when the dead can most easily make their way back into the land of the living. A night for people to declare that the boundary is sacred; that the living will cling to the living and the dead must stay with the dead. Down in the village, the common folk had created an enormous pile of sticks and logs. Nearby they’d stockpiled bones from those animals recently slaughtered, the ones that wouldn’t have been able to forage for themselves over the coming winter. This was the fuel for the bonfire, or bonefire. By long tradition, on All Hallows Eve, hearth fires in villages throughout the land would be allowed to die so they could be rekindled from the bonefire. The new fire, and the sharing of it, would bring good luck to the village.
On this magically potent day, children would be set to hollowing out turnips and pumpkins for Jack o’ Lanterns whose candles would show, by their flickering, when ghosts were among them. Many people would seek out Myfanwy to have their futures divined. Men and women of all ages would skirt the forest at every point to gather extra wood for the fire.
Walking alone, Gwilym was cursing bitterly to himself over his powerlessness to aid, defend or even speak with his daughters when, suddenly, he found himself face to face with Brenton LeGros. Without speaking, the younger man beckoned then strode away through the undergrowth. Gwilym’s surprise was great but it blossomed into fully-fledged astonishment a moment later when he burst into a clearing.