Children of Clun

by Robert Nicholls

  “But,” Richard continued, “we do get tired, us! I tell you truly, Owain Glyndwr is near worn out from gettin’ back up again. But Roland Lenthall wants ‘is ‘ead. An’ it ‘pears he’s willin’ to use your daughters to get it.”

  The growl came again, to Jack’s ears, now clearly dangerous and threatening. The small still light of the single candle, dangling over their heads, cast ghoulish shadows over the villagers’ faces. Jack spread his feet slightly, gritting his teeth at the soreness and stiffness in his wounded leg. If anyone thought to go for Richard, they would go through Jack Sorespot first.

  “Glyndwr has always said he’d die a beggar on the Clun-Clee Ridgeway,” Richard continued, his words now sharp and quick, like a handful of thrown gravel, “before ‘e’d turn ‘is self over to any o’ Roland Lenthall’s kind.”

  Feet shuffled and the level of muttering increased. Jack’s stomach contracted, as though a millstone had just rolled across it. He drew a deep breath and, for long moments, while his eyes flicked from side to side, forgot to let it out. What was wrong with them? Couldn’t they see that everyone was there for the same reason – to rescue Madeleine and Anwen?

  A grumbling movement sounded somewhere behind. Jack recognised the voice instantly. In his fearless way, Roger Ringworm was pushing through, to place himself at Jack’s shoulder, filling one more part of the space between Richard and the villagers. Roger’s chin and lower lip were both thrust out defiantly and he raised his small, bony fists in the most threatening gesture he could manage.

  “Huh?” he said, as though defying the men to repeat their rumblings.

  Though the stance was intended as support and encouragement, it had the opposite effect on Jack. In it, he recognised only hopelessness. What use could there be in such scrawny defiance? Perhaps this entering into the village had been a mistake? Tom/Maredydd had advised against it – and Brenton LeGros had worried aloud about how the villagers would react. But Jeremy had insisted that it was necessary to his plan.

  Nonetheless, the raised fists of Roger Ringworm brought the murmurings and mutterings of the villagers to an end. Possibly they were simply astonished at his effrontery, but they lapsed into sullen silence. And the throaty chuckle that broke that silence came from none of them. It came from Silent Richard who’d reached out, placing a hand on each of the boys’ heads, as though blessing them.

  “There was a time,” he said softly, and it wasn’t clear if he was speaking to himself or the boys or the villagers; “there was a time when it seemed we’d used up all the courage in this land. But you see?” he stroked their shaggy heads. “It always shows up again . . . somewhere. Somewhere you never thought to look.”

  He turned the boys to him and pushed Roger’s little fists down to his sides. After a moment’s silence, he said, almost inaudibly, repeating an old saw, “Whoever crosses the bridge at Clun comes back a wiser man.” He tilted his head thoughtfully and said to the assemblage, “You know, it was All Saints’ Day last year when we found these boys in the forest. Newly run away from their village up north, they was. Their year is up. As of tomorrow, they’re free men.” He looked over the boys’ heads at the villagers. “Free-er than any o’ the rest of us here, may be.” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “I am Owain Glyndwr,” said Silent Richard. “I won’t – I can’t – surrender myself to Lenthall. But I surrender to you, the people of Clun.”

  Jack’s head snapped up in astonishment and “Huh?” croaked Roger Ringworm.

  In the dim light, Richard’s eyes sought out those of Jack. They glistened hotly and one of them, Jack thought, winked. But explanations could not be sought or given. Overhead, the candle guttered. Maybe a ghost had come amongst them. Or perhaps it was the combined exhalations of all the men in the room, none of whom had ever thought to see such a sight.

  “What about Jeremy!” Jack hissed, imagining the villagers pouncing on Richard to present to Roland Lenthall, in return for their girls. “What about the plan? He said he could get Maddie an’ Annie if we could distract the soldiers! He’ll be caught there!”

  “Yes, well . . . you know Jeremy’s a bit o’ not all there, don’t ye, son,” said Richard, tapping his forehead lightly and smiling. “Maybe ol’ Sir Roland’ud jus’ give back Maddie and Annie an’ Jeremy . . . in exchange for Owain Glyndwr! Nobody’d get hurt then. Wouldn’t that be worth a try?”

  “What would Sir Roland do to ye?” Jack cried, tears already creeping around the backs of his eyes.

  “Oh, nothin’. Nothin’ at all! I’ll explain I’ve been offered a pardon – an amnesty. He’ll still be a hero an’ I’ll get to go to London . . . live like a prince in the royal court!”

  “A fine dream!” said a voice, rich and deep, from the midst of the crowd. It was Gwilym. “An’ we thank ye for the offer, Owain. It’s a great honour for the people of Clun; from the great Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, heir to the kingdom of Powys.”

  Even the squalor of a mud-walled, candle-lit peasant’s hut could not diminish the grandeur of those titles or the awe with which Gwilym recited them.

  “I’ll not deny,” he continued, “it crossed our minds that ye might be ‘imself! An’ that we could maybe make an attempt on ye; hand ye over in trade! Speakin’ as the father o’ them girls, I’d risk almost anythin’ to get ‘em back. An’ if I was sure Sir Roland’d make the exchange, I’d be speakin’ out for acceptin’ your offer. But speakin’ as reeve of Clun, I’ve long learned not to put me faith in the promises o’ high born folk.” Nods of assent started up all around him.

  “An’ even beyond that, there’s this! In recent times – the years since Thomas FitzAlan left – we folk in Clun’ve tasted a little o’ what it might be like to be free men.” He nodded meaningfully at Jack and Roger. “Things’ve been changin’, ye see. Here an’ all through the land, if stories we hear be true. Meself, I been tryin’ ‘ard to ignore it; but I see now, that en’t the right way. So ‘ere’s what us’ve decided. We want no more masters ‘ere in Clun – not permanent, not visitin’! An’so we think not to give Sir Roland any joy of this place. Therefore, if your man – your Jeremy – can retrieve my girls safely, we’ll ‘ave that. An’ if we ‘ave Sir Roland in embarrassment, so much the better. We can ‘ide the girls ‘til ‘e decides to go, as go ‘e will! That’ll leave only Mister Rowe, who I b’lieve we can educate toward some mutual respect! So we thank ye for your grand offer, Owain Glyndwr; but your first plan is not changed. We’ll wait. We’ll see. If the outcome looks uncertain, we’ll speak again.”

  * * * *

  The plan as Jeremy’d outlined it was simplicity itself, requiring only a distraction that was no distraction at all! Nothing was to happen! Not the normal nighttime activities and certainly not the expected All Hallows Eve festivities. In fact, on this night of the dead, it would be helpful if the village itself were to seem to die. That being the case, there would be no one in the castle whose attention was not turned outward – hopefully leaving Jeremy to prowl unnoticed within.

  With that in mind, the candle in Gwilym’s house was extinguished before the door was opened and when the occupants stepped out there was, Jack thought, what Jonah might have wakened to in the belly of the whale – soft and limitless darkness. At the corners of his eyes, he could see still shadows like wraiths but, when he turned to look directly, they seemed to disappear. He knew, though, that those silent spectres were not only the remaining half dozen of the Plant Owain. They were all the women and children of Clun.

  At Gwilym’s soft word, hundreds of hands reached out to catch other hands, other shoulders, the fringes of cloaks; anything to ensure that none became separated, left alone and vulnerable on such a black and demon-ridden night. And together, as one, in a ghostly shuffle, they edged their way out of the village.

  Their objective lay less than a quarter mile distant. At the fringe of the forest there was an embankment that Glyndwr himself had thrown up, during his siege of Clun more than a decade before – an embankment that would persist
for centuries. And behind that bank, out of sight of the castle, the people sat down in small close clusters, to wait. They waited to see if Jeremy Talbot’s plan could free the reeve’s daughters.

  In hopes of that outcome a dozen men, including Brenton LeGros, remained hidden amongst the houses. Unseen, they watched the watchers and prepared, God willing, to receive the escaping children. As for Myfanwy, she sat by her cart like an ancient stone, like a fallen piece of Clun castle itself. She was wrapped in sheepskins, her eyes closed, her breathing so faint that, at one point, a vole took temporary shelter against her.

  Chapter 32 – Struggles Within

  Clun, though a small village was, by reputation, a lively and vibrant place where candles and torches often burned late into the night – particularly at festival times. Imagine then the bewilderment of Maude. In the time it had taken for the sun to set and dusk to seep away, the entire village – every house, candle, voice and dog-bark – had been whisked out of the world! How else explain the black and silent hole that now lay before her? What had become of her family and her home? And why, when she most needed it, had the soothing alien voice in her mind suddenly fallen quiet?

  Imagine too, the mood of Sir Roland’s soldiers. None of them, holding torches high for more illumination, could conceal their increasing nervousness. Was the enemy creeping near? Could it even be, it being All Hallows Eve, that an army of the dead was gathering in the darkness? All along the wall they strained their eyes and turned their best ears toward the village, provoking one another to curses by the scuffing of their feet and the accidental ping of steel against stone. Some, the most conscience stricken, even lowered themselves to their knees, to remind God of their devotion and their need for protection.

  Imagine finally, the single isolated watcher, sweating inside a light travelling armour, cursing the thinness of his luck. Sir Angus of Atholl. Already choked with humiliation for his own recent lapses in judgement – the foray into the forest and the night of carousing – he’d found an opportunity for redemption in the de facto imprisonment of Elizabeth Douglas.

  “An insult!” he’d declared hotly to the three women. “To your persons! To your families! To Scotland itself!” In his mind, of course, the greatest insult was to his knightly honour, but he’d wisely decided to be judged only by his future actions; not his past. “It’s intolerable! I see it as my duty, Miladies, to deliver you safely from this place this very night!”

  The four of them, he’d explained, could easily flit away after dark, through the broken gates and down the forest road, under cover of the village’s celebration. He would guide them then to Stoke St. Milborough where they could pay their respects at St Milburga’s holy well and, more importantly, be anonymous amongst the crowds of pilgrims. Safe, until he could lead them north, through Much Wenlock and back to Scotland!

  “It’s a great risk, Sir Angus!” Elizabeth had pointed out. “If Sir Roland discovers us . . . I fear what he might do under cover of darkness!”

  “He’ll not discover us, Lady Elizabeth! Trust me! The plan is foolproof!”

  It was a plan, however, that called for the fool of a moon to not be hidden behind the clouds. It also required the fools in the village to light their bonefire and raise an unholy distraction. And lastly, the plan called for the foolish superstition of Sir Angus himself to be suppressed – a difficult task, considering his sizeable fear of the ghosts that walked abroad at Samhain – the Night of the Dead!

  Still, he scolded himself as he peered out into the silent, utter darkness, he was a Christian knight! One who had sworn to dedicate his life and, if need be, his death, to the ideals of chivalry! One who knew that he could do no less than the women in his charge, who’d risked everything for this journey – for the regaining of their imprisoned king!

  “Do not try!” was the mantra he muttered to himself over and over as he slid through the torchlight shadows. “Do not try. Succeed or die!”

  It happened then that, in his desperate reconnoitre along the wall, Sir Angus stumbled into the shadowy vantagepoint occupied by Sir Perceval, Marie, Lady Joan and Maude and the meeting, unexpectedly, gave him hope. Lady Joan, after all, was mightily aware of the danger that Elizabeth Douglas had placed herself in, for no direct benefit to herself. And, Angus thought, despite her childish arrogance, Lady Joan did actually have the highest connections in the land! Who better, then, to protect Elizabeth? So keen was he to believe, that he happily overlooked the simple truth. Lady Joan could help no one, because her own motives for being in Clun bordered on treason!

  “Sir Angus!” Joan hailed him as he slipped close to them on the wall. “A happy meeting! Since Sir Roland has mewed us up in this castle, I’ve been so worried for your charges! If only we knew how long . . . !”

  “Thank you Milady. I must say, I share your worry!”

  Polite banter, then, was by-passed as Angus, his foolproof plan in tatters, whispered his fears and cursed the difficulty of escape – given the state of the neighbourhood. Maude, already confused and fearful, was stunned to learn that helplessness could be felt by the great as well as by the small.

  It was at that point, two hours past dusk, that Roland began to crack. His men needed action, he decided. And he definitely needed to find out what was afoot in that accursed village! Slamming a mailed fist against the stonework, he began barking orders out across the bailey.

  “A scouting party! You, you and you! And you three there! Get down there! Find out what in Hell’s black circle they’re doing!”

  “Yes your Lordship. And to be clear, your Lordship – the use of force? I mean, if the villagers should . . . !”

  “Yes, yes! Whatever! No need for niceties! Burn a house or two if ye must. And light that damn bonefire! Let us all see what’s what! And straight back here when you’ve found out! Right?”

  The words echoed all around the wall, even to the nook where Angus, Perceval, Marie and Joan were huddled. Maude also heard – ‘Burn a house or two’ – and her feeling of helplessness began to spiral into desperation. She began frantically searching her mind for the nearest way down – a way to flee to her family – to warn them! She hardly saw, then, the whispered intensity of those she’d waited on; fingers being pointed and heads shaken; shoulders tapped and foreheads bumped. Backed into the shadows of her desperation, Maude missed all mention of the girls’ dresses, the night’s darkness and the village’s mysterious silence. And she barely notice when, with all their heads nodding enthusiastically, Angus turned and hurryied off the wall.

  Though surrounded by stone and soldiers and powerful friends, Maude felt as exposed and vulnerable as a skeleton in a dog kennel. She would run! Run until she found the way down to the ground and back to the village! But which way? Her feet were still awaiting final instructions when Marie and Joan captured her hands and, with whispered pleas, began dragging her away. She struggled, they refused to let go and she relented. Blame her father, who had always taught that obedience was owed to great people.

  At the last, as they entered the castle, Maude had a fleeting look over her shoulder and saw Sir Perceval, the Bastard of de Coucy, stepping boldly out of the shadows. He was heading for the inner bailey where the scouting party was preparing horses.

  * * * *

  “Have you room for one more?” Perceval asked cheerily, as though the riders were off on a Sunday picnic.

  “Six horses, six men!” Roland barked. “No spares.” He wanted to add, ‘No useless Froggies needed!’ but he managed to hold his tongue.

  “C’est bien, mon ami! Do not trouble yourself! I will fetch my own.”

  “They’ll not wait, Perceval! Fetch the damned nag if you will, but my men are going now!”

  “Of course! Of course!” Perceval waved happily. “Go, my friends! I will catch you up, eh?”

  And he strode off to the stables, leaving Roland muttering and the other knights shaking their heads. Foreigners, they were all thinking; always sticking their noses in!

 
; Perceval, of course, was far from concerned. In fact it suited him to let some space open between himself and the English knights. On his own, his observations would be less clouded.

  * * * *

  The journey into the village was barely two hundred yards of clear roadway, but the knights rode warily, two abreast, each carrying a torch and each with his broadsword unsheathed, lying across the pommel of his saddle. To each, it seemed that he rode in so small a cone of light that, if he reached out his arms, his hands would disappear – perhaps to be stroked by those of a ghost! In fact, so impervious was the night that, though they stared in wide-eyed fear, never a man of them was able to see the fortune-teller seated on the ground by her cart, wrapped in a trance of dreaming.

  Sir Perceval, riding out minutes later and without a torch, was also blind to all but the pinprick torches far down the road. Even the single shivering guard who’d been instructed to close the gate behind him had been little more than a voice in a shadow. Hardly surprising then, that that guard failed to see the flicker of movement as a piece of the darkness tore itself free to crave entry. He was the only one who might have stopped Brenton LeGros and his club-like lump of firewood. And he was the only one who would see nothing more of All Hallows Eve.

  * * * *

  Once inside the castle, Joan and Marie bore Maude directly to their room.

  “We’re all leaving, Maude!” Joan declared in vast excitement. “Now! Tonight!

  And you’re to come with us! To London! You’ll be one of my maids! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “L-London?” Maude stammered.

  “Or France, Maude!” Marie offered. “Perceval and I – we would be honoured for your company!”

  “France! You mean . . . leave the Marches? Leave Clun?”

  “Well of course, silly girl!” Joan laughed. “You can’t go to London without leaving Clun!”

  Maude would never – even when her perceptions had matured – understand their motivations on that night. Had they hoped (a hopeless hope, since she’d never travelled away herself) that she could help guide them to Stoke St. Milborough? Or had they wanted a willing hostage in case things went awry? Or had they perhaps confused her somehow with Maddy, who was absolutely desperate to shake off the drudgery of village life? How could they have read her so poorly?