Children of Clun

by Robert Nicholls

  “To the fire, man. Sit you down.”

  At the turn of the century, a vast uprising of Welshmen had drawn their swords in the name of Owain Glyndwr, for the cause of Welsh independence. He’d led them to a string of brilliant victories against English armies – against fortress castles across the Marches, including the one at Clun. For years, luck had walked so closely beside him that success had begun to seem possible. Glyndwr had issued proclamations, entered negotiations and started conflagrations to shake the Isles – a prince in his own right. Then, because luck is fickle and comes in both good and bad forms, it had turned on him. Sensing the change, his followers – all but the very few – had laid down their arms, apologised for their actions, paid their fines and turned their backs on him. What, finally, could he do but take himself away out of the fray? So far as the world knew, the mountains of Snowdonia had swallowed him whole. Years had passed.

  * * * *

  While Jeremy set himself to studying Jack’s wolf-torn leg, Glyndwr got Brenton seated. He then returned to Anwen and covered her with a blanket before, finally, turning to Madeleine. His look was direct and focussed but terribly strained, as though some bone within him was broken.

  “You needn’t be frightened, girl. Are you alright?” She nodded, remembering too late to close her mouth so she wouldn’t look gormless. “Good. Come near the fire, then, and warm yourself.” He turned away from her, back to Brenton, who, in a chair near the fire, sat leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. From the movement of his shoulders, Madeleine thought, perhaps he was crying.

  Gently, Glyndwr moved Brenton’s shoulders back to take the weight off his feet and began to undo Brenton’s shoes. “No, no!” Brenton insisted. “No need for that. I’m alright. I’ll be alright.”

  “As you wish, man. But the shoes should come off. Dry feet and a dry head. Those are the keys.”

  Brenton smiled a thin smile and leaned slowly forward once again. He was trembling visibly and the hiss that escaped his lips told a tale of agony.

  “In a minute,” he said.

  “How are you hurt, man?” asked Owain gently.

  Brenton shook his head. “It’s nothing. An old wound. All but healed. Might have strained it a bit is all. Just need a minute.”

  That set off an investigation by Owain that soon revealed the story of the battle at Bauge as well as the raw ridge of tissue that now sealed the lance’s cut. Owain ventured an opinion about the damage inside and showed a scar of his own, by comparison. The remaining dozen of the old men, as they drifted into the building, clapping hands against the cold, crowding the fire and savouring the food smells, also became eager to expose ancient scars. There were slashed chests and arms, cavities where flesh had once been, spaces where fingers had once flexed and there was an uneven number of ears in the room. Madeleine reckoned that a deep well could be filled with the combined injuries these men had experienced.

  At a point, Owain broke free from the group, joining Jeremy at Jack’s side. Together, the two old men re-inspected the torn leg and murmured a few soft words. Then, for a second time, Owain Glyndwr turned the grey uncertainty of his gaze on Madeleine.

  “I’m sorry you and your friend’ve been dragged off to this place, girl. I’m not certain what Jack had in mind. But I know he never would have hurt you. Anyhow, you’ll be safe enough here until we can get you back to your homes. Roger’ll be getting you some dry clothes now and we’ll all be getting some broth into us on this cold autumn night.” He turned away.

  And so it was that Madeleine, a girl at the merest beginning of her own struggle for independence, sat down at table with a man whose very name was a symbol for endurance and implacability. Anwen woke for long enough to share the meal, to speak some soft words to Brenton and to corner Silent Richard for an exuberant re-telling of the day’s fantastic events. His mute nodding showed a mix of terror, at the river of her words, and tenderness, for the vulnerability of her life.

  The night had aged only a little when Madeleine, suffering the onset of shock, rushed out into the darkness to throw up the little she’d eaten. Then she lay down, shivering with fear and loneliness, on a pallet next to Anwen. Fourteen old men, two boys, two girls and Brenton LeGros gradually fell into silence and sleep.

  Chapter 18 – Brother Bones

  Through the night, the rain drummed steadily on the roof slates and tapped at the walls. In the red-orange glow of the banked fire, men who had defied kings surrendered to the gentle tyranny of dreams. This night, as on every night, their hearts, their wishes, their despairs and their fears were rediscovered – laid bare – as though sleep was a great owl that nightly clamped them in its talons and pierced their brains. Behind their flickering eyes, battles raged, lovers were taken, children were born and died.

  A little past midnight, the rain stopped and the sky cleared. The silence woke Madeleine from the race she’d been running in her mind all that short night. The moon, only two days past the full, cast a clear light through chinks in the window slats. She rose and pressed her eye to a narrow slit. Only a dozen yards away stood the small church where once, a secluded band of monks had kneeled to thank God for their hardships and for the opportunity to toil. Where had they gone, she wondered? Or perhaps a better question was, what had these strange old men, led by one of the king’s most renowned enemies, done with the holy men? She crept silently from the dormitory, feeling the need to reach out to them, to pray in the church they’d laboured to build. How she wished Father Reginald was here, to comfort her with his quiet assurance in God’s protection!

  Even in the moonlight, she could see that the church was ancient. It slumped noticeably on its foundation, and the window spaces, once possibly filled with expensive glass, gaped emptily. The door stood slightly askew, wide enough for her, first to peer through and then to slip through. She stood for a long moment, looking through the broad shafts of moonlight, smelling the must and decay that nature always insists on bringing to man’s works. In the distance, a fox yipped, and was still. Madeleine knew that, when the lord of a manor died, all the foxes on his land would sing out together in the night – whether in joy or sadness, she’d never been told. In any case, the masters of this house were clearly long gone. Only one fox left to cry for them.

  Except! As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, one of the shadows began to take on a familiar, oddly man-like shape. It was a slumped figure, in a pew, smoothly outlined, as though covered in a cowl. It somehow reminded her of Father Reginald. Her heart jumped. It was a man! A man with his head bowed in prayer! Surely not one of the terrible, battered old men from the dormitory! Surely none of them would spend a night’s penance (though a collapsing house of God would certainly be a suitable place for one of them)! Perhaps there were still priests about from the old priory days!

  She took a step and spoke softly. “Hello? Excuse me, Father!” No answer. “Hello? Can you ‘elp me, Father?”

  The figure did not move. Perhaps he was so deep in prayer – so lost in the solitude of the storm-washed night – that he couldn’t hear her. She decided to go closer and did so, placing her feet with all the exaggerated care of a cat stalking a mouse. It seemed an age until she was close enough to reach out. It definitely was a man! Slowly, gently, she placed her fingertips on his shoulder, wary only of startling him out of his trance. She tapped gently. The man’s head fell off.

  In the clatter of bones that followed, a skull bounced into the moonlight at her feet and Madeleine, aghast, found herself frozen to the spot. Later, she would think that, for the briefest count of seconds, her heart had been stopped entirely by that vacant, empty-eyed stare. However, the instant that it began again to beat, she flung herself into flight, stumbling, tripping, falling, scrambling on all fours, unable to contain the high-pitched, wordless entreaty that squeezed from the back of her throat. She banged into the door, fell backwards through the opening and scuttled, crablike, across the soaked ground, all the while emitting a wordles
s kind of howl.

  How long did she howl? She didn’t know. She only knew that eventually, in the darkness, hands gripped and lifted her and, for the second time in a dozen hours, she wrapped her arms about a living person who was a total stranger to her. Her eyes clenched tightly shut, she drew a shuddering breath and sent a somewhat reduced keening wail out again. It was as though a banshee had taken possession of her, the hollow sockets of its eyes being precisely those of the skull in the church. She shook her head violently and pressed her face against the warm chest of the man who held her.

  “Quiet now,” the man was saying, over and over. “Hush now. You’re safe, girl. There’s no danger ‘ere.”

  And little by little, she drew herself back together, letting herself become aware of the man; aware of the strength in his voice and of the sinewy life in the arms he wrapped around her. She sensed the breadth and depth of his chest and heard the far away boom of his heart. She heard the swirl of air in his lungs and the rumble of words in his throat. She smelled wood smoke on him and roasted meat and the musky odour of life. By focussing on these things, she managed to drive the horrifying stare of the skull back into a recess of her mind, and to still her own crying. She regained herself, even while sensing that Death had crept up on her, breathing a loathsome breath into her nostrils and hissing a terrible promise into her ear.

  “It seems she’s met Brother Bones,” she heard a voice say – Owain Glyndwr’s voice. She pried open a reluctant eye and twisted her head. Hard against the moon’s glow, she saw the dark shapes of the old men: Silent Richard, with a long sword gripped in his two hands and, peeping tremulously from behind him, the blond crown of Anwen. Glyndwr came close and put a gentle hand on her head. “Someone had to release him, youngster. I’m sorry the task fell to you.”

  He turned and walked back into the dormitory, followed by the rest of the mumbling shadows. Only then did Madeleine step back and cautiously raise her eyes, to see who held her. It was Jeremy Talbot.

  Planting his fists on his hips, smiling his old toothless smile, he said, “That’s as close as I’ve seen anyone come, Maddie . . . to wakin’ the dead!”

  Chapter 19 – Susan the Spy

  Castles and rain do not make good companions. Water pools on every surface, soaks through the mortar, permeates the air and sucks the warmth from the very stones. Cathedrals full of wood are needed for burning in the winter months, to keep the dampness at bay.

  In Clun castle, Samuel Rowe would be checking the stocks each day before dawn and would be down in the village, threatening dire punishments if they seemed insufficient. The peasants could keep warm by keeping active; the lord and lady, however, kept warm by confining themselves to ever smaller parts of the castle – near the fires or in protected corners outside, where the wind was weak and the winter sun undiluted.

  Sir Roland woke at sunrise when the trumpet signalled the start of the day. He lay quietly, cocooned in the heavy fur coverings, listening to Margaret’s genteel snores. A servant was tip-toeing about the room, having slept on the floor as she always did, in a corner near the hearth. They were used to her being in the room with them; allowing her to enjoy the left-over warmth that the stones had borrowed from the previous night’s fire was small pay for having her close at hand to tend to their nighttime needs. Always, her first duty of the day was to re-stoke the fire before the lord and lady arose.

  Roland peeped out at her from beneath the covers. Her name was Susan and she had been chambermaid to himself and his wife for what – he tried to think – three years now? She was their pick to accompany them whenever they chose to travel, being, apparently, almost completely devoid of personal needs and moral qualms. Only recently, she’d repeated to Margaret a garbled, but nonetheless disturbing conversation that she openly confessed to hearing while ‘passing’ Mary Gordon’s closed door.

  He must remember to commend her for that, he thought. Later, perhaps. For now, there was no need to speak or to actually rise or even, really, to be awake. The trumpet, which summoned the dozens of castle workers to their tasks, was his assurance of that. Far below, in the kitchens, soups and stews would soon be bubbling in the big iron pots. In the Great Hall, the debris of last night’s revelry would be swept away. In the stables, animals would be fed and stalls mucked out. In the village, wood cutters would cut and shepherds would shepherd and tanners would tan and laundresses would launder. All while he lolled under the comfort of his furs.

  Roland smiled contentedly, scratched his bum and stretched his long legs. He rolled over, thinking to fall back asleep. His bladder was full, though, so he swung his legs out, grabbed the chamber pot from beneath the bed and began to fill it. The splash reminded him of last night’s rain.

  “What’s the weather to be today, girl?” he asked of Susan, without turning.

  “Rain’s gone, Sir Roland. Sky’s as clear as a billy goat’s eye. Cold though! You’ll want to keep a fur about you for a bit, I expect, if yer risin’.”

  She came around to his side of the bed to take the chamber pot from him. “Ah,” she said, “a nice healthy amount of water, yer lordship. I’ll be tossin’ that for ye straight away.”

  He slid back under the covers, noting that Margaret had begun to snuffle and stretch; clearly no longer asleep, but not yet ready to acknowledge the day.

  “Are any of the castle’s guests up and about yet, Susan?” he asked.

  “Sir Perceval and his lady are gone walkin’ in the village, yer lordship. I seen ‘em goin’ out the gate meself, when I was fetchin’ water fer your basin.”

  “Walking in the village? What the Devil for, I wonder?”

  Susan crossed herself at the mention of the devil, an act she performed frequently in Sir Roland’s presence.

  “Some foreign custom, maybe, yer lordship. I ‘eard ‘e was down questionin’ the kitchen staff yesterday ‘bout the onions, Sir! And the turnips! Wantin’ to know ‘ow easy they was to grow an’ ‘ow big an’ ‘ow did Cook store ‘em! Jenny Talbot – beggin’ yer pardon, Sir – Mistress Talbot reckoned to the girls that ‘e was a loony, Sir, beggin’ yer pardon, Sir. She reckoned to the girls that some good English cookin’ would see ‘im right, though, an’ she was goin’ to whip ‘im up a pie full o’ starlin’s, Sir. Must be a very charmin’ gentleman, to tweak a pie out o’ Mistress Talbot, Sir! But fancy a gentleman wantin’ to talk to the kitchen staff, Sir Roland! About veg’tables, ‘n’ all!”

  She’d lost Roland’s attention at the first mention of onions. “All right, all right. That’s enough.”

  His mind had begun trolling back through the challenges presented to him the previous day and he knew that returning to sleep now was out of the question.

  “Yes yer lordship. Thank you, Sir,” said Susan, tucking the chamber pot under her arm. “They do say, Sir,” she couldn’t help but add, “ – not me, mind, but the kitchen girls, Sir – they say Sir Perceval’s a very beautiful man, Sir! An’ Lady de Coucy, bein’ so young an’ all, mus’ be a spectacularly ‘appy bride! You know, to be able to be lookin’ at ‘im, like, day an’ night, you know!” Susan blushed scarlet and decided it was definitely time to scamper, before her tongue got her in trouble.

  “Susan!” Lady Margaret’s voice came strongly from beneath the mound of furs. Susan stopped and turned sheepishly.

  “Yes, m’lady? Sorry to ‘ave disturbed you, Lady Margaret. I do be a chatter box in the mornin’, me! Is there anythin’ . . .”

  “Be quiet, girl, for heaven’s sake,” Lady Margaret demanded.

  “Yes m’am. Sorry m’am.”

  “Susan,” (Lady Margaret’s dishevelled head emerged into the light and she cocked a bleary eye at the girl), “spreading gossip about your betters is very naughty, do you know that?”

  “Yes m’am. Sorry m’am. It wasn’t like it was real gossip, though, Lady Margaret. It was just. . .’

  “I know what it was, Susan. And I know you wouldn’t actually be involved in spreading rumours – false rum
ours – angry-making rumours. Of course you wouldn’t. Sir Roland and I have much greater faith in you than that.” She smiled a thin, hangman’s sort of smile and Susan, relieved at being spared the expected tongue-lashing, curtsied lightly.

  “Unhappily though, Susan, many of the castle’s staff will not be . . . as wise as you are. Some of them would say anything, you know . . . without regard for truth . . . or for consequences. And others would say nothing at all when they really ought to speak! Do you know what I mean?” Susan nodded, not quite certain where this argument might be headed. “I lie awake at night, Susan. Worrying. You know?” Susan nodded again, still as bewildered as a hen in a treetop. “In short, Susan, Sir Roland and I hope that we can count on you to . . . to continue to let us know? . . . of any unpleasant rumours that you might hear? So we can put a stop to them at the proper time. Before they cause any harm. Do you take my meaning?”

  Susan curtsied again as understanding began to illuminate her mind, like a small torch in a wide and empty courtyard. Her propensity for eavesdropping had just been given a stamp of approval! She smiled and nodded vigorously.

  “There’s a good girl,” Lady Margaret finished. “Now, how full is that chamber pot? Bring it here and I’ll save you a second trip.” She groaned into a sitting position and swung her legs out from under the furs.

  While Lady Margaret squatted over the pot, Susan had one more poke at the fire and thought with satisfaction of how important a person she’d become. Not the cold walk to the outer rampart, not the slosh of warm urine in the pot, not the sulphurous smell in her nostrils – not even the drops that flew back onto her hands as she dumped the contents over the edge – nothing could dampen her sudden enthusiasm for news. Her eyes and ears, she determined, would henceforth never be idle.