by Phil Rickman
‘Thomas Jones?’
‘The small surprises life throws at us, eh? Keep me going, they do. How are you, boy?’
This was a man high on the list of people I’d not expected to meet in this town. But then again…
‘You’re here as a friend of the accused?’ I said.
‘Ha!’
‘To plead for his life, perhaps?’
Thomas Jones, who was betrothed to my cousin Joanne, peered at the approaching ostler.
‘Lying with the horse tonight, is it, John, or have you come into money?’
‘Living off my rich friends,’ I said. ‘As usual.’
‘I thought maybe it was that. You can buy me dinner, then.’
* * *
I’m yet unsure how my cousin Joanne, whom I’d encountered but rarely, had come to be enamoured of the man known in his own country as Twm Siôn Cati.
Thomas, son of John and Catherine, is all it means, but it’s said to ring like mocking bells in west Wales, where he was known as a scholar. And also a thief.
Thief? Listen, I know not – and take care never to ask – what he stole. According to the legend, his victims tended to be knavish landowners. Some of the proceeds of his crimes were, it is said, fed to the victims’ hard-pressed tenants… while leaving some behind for the purchase of his books, I’d guess, though never asked.
Especially since Thomas Jones – Dr Jones now – had, with little explanation, been granted a pardon by the Queen. Maybe through petition of his family to Cecil or even Blanche Parry. Who really knew how or why such pardons were granted? But Robert Dudley, when introduced, was predictably sceptical of the provenance of this one.
‘You expect me to dine with this sack of shit?’
Glaring at Thomas Jones from a corner of the parlour at the Bull, where candles flared from the walls and men I recognised as Legge’s attorneys were pressed amongst well-dressed men with a merchant air, and serving girls bore jugs of ale and cider.
Twm Siôn Cati looked hurt. He’d gained some weight since last I’d seen him, and his hair was longer, his beard shaven close. His doublet, of a warm, russet colour with threads looking suspiciously gilded, was the kind of garment that Dudley himself might have worn were he not in mourning or the guise of Master Roberts.
I did not know – and yet don’t – if there was history common to these men or whether Dudley’s disdain might even hide a well-buried respect. I might even have derived some amusement from it, had circumstances been different, for it was clear that Thomas Jones had a good idea of my companion’s identity. And Dudley’s attitude would confirm it.
‘This man’s a renowned knave. You do know that, John?’
‘Former knave,’ Thomas Jones said stiffly.
‘And you’re telling me this piece of gangrenous Welsh pus is your cousin?’
‘Soon to be, Master Roberts, by marriage.’ Thomas Jones tossed a handful of groats on to a tray and snatched up a mug of cider. ‘And may I say, John, your antiquary’s manner of speech—’
‘Tutored him myself,’ I said.
‘—is sadly typical of the vulgar way the grasping lower orders, when exposed to a little learning, choose to express themselves these days. Thank God, I say, that such a man will never be seen within a mile of the Queen’s Majesty.’
‘If I were in a position to order it,’ Dudley murmured, ‘I’d be obliged, for the good of the country and all of us, to see you hang.’
‘You’ll stay for that, masters? The hanging?’ The big, shiny face of the innkeeper was before us. ‘Likely no more than a day after the trial. And then we’ll sell some ale, sure to.’
Thomas Jones looked dubious.
‘Won’t they torture him first? Find out where the others are? Won’t they want to crush what’s left of Plant Mat once and for all?’
‘You could be right, master, could be right. Likely be dusting off the rack at New Radnor as we speaks. Might have to build the gallows a few inches higher.’
The innkeeper was near doubled up with merriment.
* * *
Dudley said, ‘You actually trust this man Jones?’
‘In a way, I probably do. But I wish I knew why he was here.’
It had not been possible, in the suffocatingly crowded inn, to discuss anything of significance. Dudley had said hardly a word. Soon after our supper, Thomas Jones had disappeared to wherever he was to lie this night and Dudley and I had taken a jug of cider to our chamber, lit a candle, closed the shutters against what remained of the revelry.
‘He’s here,’ Dudley said, ‘because he knows Prys Gethin. Why else?’
‘Robbie, he was pardoned by the Queen.’
‘Only because she likes to appear magnanimous towards the Welsh. And because he’s a popular knave. That, of course, is assuming it was her own decision, which I tend to doubt. And who can be sure that Jones isn’t one of them? Plant Mat.’
Dudley had told me about coming face to face with Prys Gethin, chained in his gaol cart. Of his conviction that he’d been cursed by the man. I knew not what to think. For any number of reasons, Dudley was in a peculiar state of mind.
‘I just… I don’t like the feel of this, John. I’m yet failing to understand why a judge of the eminence of Legge is sent here, complete with jury, to make sure that one man is seen to be tried and goes to the gallows with all ends tied. It’s too much. There’s something happening behind it.’
He’d also told me about the whore he’d lain with – why was I unsurprised to hear of this? – and his belief that she might lead him to Abbot Smart and the Wigmore shewstone.
‘And you trust her?’ I said.
‘I know women. She’ll want more of me. What are you doing?’
I’d found paper and ink in my bag and spread them out upon the board under the candle.
‘Drawing a map, from memory, of Brynglas Hill and the valley leading down to the River Lugg.’
Wishing I was in my library, with Leland’s maps, where all might be measured against what was known and recorded. So many possibilities here. Did the ancients believe that dedication of the river to the god of the harvest might ensure fertility in the valley? I drew the ancient burial mound in the river’s curve and the church with its pre-Christian well and shrine. And betwixt them the oak grove. Dudley was peering over my shoulder, a mug of cider in hand.
‘What’s it mean?’
‘All these heathen sacred places all clustered together. The river and the hill. It’s clear that in the time before Christ some places were seen as more suited to worship and communion with the beyond. Places where there might be passage through the spheres, one to another.’
Dudley took a step back, cider spilling over his wrist.
‘Beg mercy, John, I may have asked the wrong question. What I meant was, what the fuck does any of this matter?’
I looked up at him, perhaps vaguely.
‘I don’t know. I need to think on it. But it’s clear, is it not, that the battlefield was chosen by Glyndwr and Rhys Gethin? And Glyndwr studied magic and would see the power in this place.’
‘Jesu,’ Dudley said wearily. ‘You never change, do you? This is all because some failed MP from the rear benches asks you to explain why his village is dying on its feet.’
‘My father’s village.’
‘Your father’s dead! And it was so much his village that he took the first opportunity to put it a three-day ride behind him and never go back to the dismal hole.’
I shook my head. I’d fought against it and lost, for reasons I’d refused even to explain to myself.
‘I felt no particular kinship with it at first. Felt nothing of my tad there. And then mysteries appeared. As important, in their way, as… as the shewstone, I suppose.’
‘As important to the Queen?’
‘Possibly not.’
‘Your mysticism leads you by the nose,’ Dudley said. ‘So Pilleth’s dying. Villages die all the time, from the plague, or the river dries up, or—’
‘One more day.’
‘You’re going back?’
‘Maybe not more than half a day.’
Dudley thrust his face up to mine.
‘Can it be that you’ve forgotten why we came here? You’re leaving me to find the shewstone, while you waste another day trying to restore the reputation of the fucking Dees?’
‘Give me one day, Robbie,’ I said. ‘Just one day.’
* * *
Maybe I should’ve told him about the Ceddols. Maybe if he’d known there was a startlingly beautiful and mysterious woman in Pilleth he would even have come with me.
Maybe some people would not have died so cruelly.
Maybe.
But I said nothing. When I crept from my truckle at first light, my head was all full of writings about a man called Agricola who I thought might answer the mystery of Siôn Ceddol. And Dudley was yet sleeping in the high bed.
The early ostler was saddling my faithful mare when, of a sudden, he climbed the ladder to his loft and returned with a fold of stiff paper.
‘Left for you last night, master.’
John, the message said. We must needs talk, boy. Alone. And with some urgency.
Had there been any sign of Thomas Jones on the streets of Presteigne as I rode out, I would of course have stopped.
Maybe I should have asked him where he was lodging.
Maybe, maybe, maybe…
Dear God.
PART FOUR
… that he the said abbot hath lived viciously, and kept to concubines divers and many women that is openly known.
… that the said abbot doth yet continue his vicious living, as it is known, openly.
… that the said abbot hath spent and wasted much of the goods of the said monastery upon the foresaid women.
Articles to be objected against John Smart, Abbot of the Monastery of Wigmore, in the county of Hereford, to be exhibited to the Right Honourable Lord Thomas Cromwell, the Lord Privy Seal
XXXII
Given Back
NOW THAT WE were well into autumn, the mist was dense and speckled with white and gold, showing that the sun was yet alive somewhere. The boy was running ahead of us into the mist, arms flung wide, flapping like the wings of a ground-hopping bird.
Not entirely of this world, I’d have sworn that.
‘Sometimes,’ Anna Ceddol said as we pursued him up the hill, ‘I think I can see lights around him. Little winking lights at his shoulders.’
People talk of foreshadows of the End-time. Lights in the sky. Prophecy in dreams. Voices in the night. Footsteps in empty rooms. The dead among the living. I hear of these things all the time. I draw glyphs and sigils and mark wondrous geometry in the night sky to calcule how celestial configurations might alter our humour. Yet how can I know what is real and what is imagined?
He spun, red-crested, amongst the curling leaves, swirling in the energy of autumn. He was of nature, she said. The woods would feed him. He would wind himself around the twisted trees, occasionally snapping off twigs which would come alive like extra fingers, twitching and dipping.
Although not so much now. He seemed to find that unnecessary now, she said, as though he could conjure invisible twigs and follow where they led.
Natural magic.
‘You took it up there?’
Anna Ceddol had stopped halfway up the slope, drawing her woollen shawl around her. The church tower had appeared above the trees. I looked at her, worried.
‘I thought to take it somewhere he might not normally go. Was that wrong?’
The secret, she’d said earlier, is in making him want to do it. He has no care for how you regard him. Will show no real love for any of us. Only need, which is not the same. He feels only for himself, and oft-times, it’s hard not to think the worst of him.
‘Not,’ she said, ‘if it proves something to you.’
But I saw she was anxious.
Once you understand, you can feel only pity… the pity that you know he’ll never feel for you. You can’t teach him to obey commands, like a dog, because a dog wants to please and he doesn’t care. You have to know when to catch his attention and point it at what you seek.
What he was seeking now, on Brynglas Hill, was an earth-browned thigh bone.
Anna Ceddol had presented it to me while he was outside.
His favourite bone. The first he found here, a few feet from our door. I could never take it to be reburied because he won’t be parted from it. Sometimes he holds it next to him as he sleeps.
I’d asked her what she wanted me to do with it, and she’d bid me take it and hide it. Anywhere. Then come back. Which was what I’d done. It had felt unreal walking through the mist carrying a thigh bone before me like a talisman, to leave in a place where I’d felt it would be in the care of a higher presence.
Returning to the Bryn, I’d heard his vixen scream and the angry toppling of wood from the fireside pile and wondered how Anna Ceddol could go on living with this, year upon year. He was already near as tall as her, would soon be bigger, a grown man with a grown man’s urges and living alone with his sister. Dear God in heaven.
When he’d registered that the bone was gone, I’d watched him running from the hovel, hands clawed, face contorted in rage, staring at me with a clear and focused hatred, Anna Ceddol watching him, impassive. Used to this – his humours changing faster than clouds in a windy dawn.
We stood and watched his red hat bobbing in the grass.
‘Do you never go to town, mistress?’
‘When I’ve something to sell.’
‘You have no cart… no horse.’
‘Nor stabling for one. No need. Horses won’t rest at the Bryn. Ewes won’t graze. Chickens escape. When I go to town, we walk. It’s not far. On a fine day.’
‘Why won’t animals live here?’
‘At the Bryn? I’d have thought you’d know, master.’
‘I’ll put it another way, then – how can you live here? You’re clearly an educated woman. How came you here?’
‘I…’
She bit her lip. Her hair was not braided this morning, and the breeze blew it back. I drew breath; her beauty unnerved me.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ I said.
‘Beg mercy,’ she said. ‘I called you master. It’s doctor, isn’t it? You treat the sick also?’
‘I… treat nobody and nothing,’ I said. ‘And cure even less. The doctorate’s something I picked up in the course of a long education. Which will never finish.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’
* * *
Tomos Ceddol, her father, had laboured on her grandparents’ farm. Good looking, and her mother had fallen for him and determined to marry him against her own father’s wishes. Anna’s mother had been the youngest of six.
Had Tomos Ceddol expected some kind of dowry? Had he expected to be rich, wed to a big farmer’s daughter? Whatever, he was soon embittered.
‘Not a good marriage,’ Anna Ceddol said, ‘and my mother, as soon as I could understand, was telling me I must never make the same mistake, to marry below me. My father had to go farther away to find work. My grandfather wanted nothing to do with him. While he was away, my mother taught me to read. Secretly. If he’d known, he’d have beaten her. And then my mother died of the summer plague, and we were left alone with him.’
‘How old was your brother?’
‘Very young. We didn’t know then that he wasn’t… as he should be.’
Some time had passed before it became clear that Siôn was not as other children. Crying in the night… that didn’t stop. Nor pissing his bed. His sister washed his sheets daily and made more in secret, or her father would have had him sleeping on straw. Soon Tomos Ceddol was become ashamed of his son. Could not bear to look at him.
‘Spent as much time away from the house as he could. He’d come home drunk – so as to get to sleep, he said. But oft-times, the noise was too much. He’d awake
in a tearing rage and… hurt Siôn. One night he took him out to the barn. I found him kicking my brother where he lay, and I pulled him away, and he hit me until I knew not where I was. The next day, I loaded a handcart and took my brother away.’
‘Where could you go?’
She shrugged.
‘Kept on walking until we were too far away for my father to find us. I’d robbed him, see.’ She looked at me, eyes wide open and unmoving. ‘Took all the money he had in the house. Well… he’d no cause for complaint. It would have cost him more if we’d stayed.’
‘Where was this? Where did you live?’
‘A good distance away. You’ll excuse me, Dr Dee, for not saying where. If he hasn’t drunk himself to death in a ditch by now, I don’t want him finding us.’
‘Did you know by then of Siôn’s… qualities?’
She shook her head.
‘We came down the border, village to village, for some years. For some time I had work caring for the small daughters of a widowed gentleman who paid a village woman to look after Siôn by day. It seemed a good situation until I learned that I was expected to marry him. He was older than my father, and I… Anyway, it was back on the road until the money was all gone.’
I waited.
‘Then another rich man took us in.’
Looking at her, was it any surprise? All the rich men would be waiting in line.
‘He gave me money and offered me a house to live in. In Presteigne.’
‘Generous,’ I said.
‘It was a good dwelling, behind one of the clothing workshops. Too good to be given without demands on my… time.’
They were walking out of town when a man and his family stopped and gave them a ride on their stock cart. Pedr Morgan, shepherd of Pilleth, returning from taking fat lambs to market. They’d spent the night in his stable. She’d asked if there was anywhere she might find work and somewhere to live for a while.
‘The rest… is of small import. Save that it took time. The people here are slow to befriend a stranger. But at least there are no rich men, save Master Price. Rich men have not been good for me.’