By the time they reached the ground, the smoke was already instilling worry in the horses Sir Roland had ordered into the bailey. Saddled and tethered in anticipation of the attack, they’d begun to knicker and twitch and lurch against their ties.
“Stay close!” Elizabeth prompted. “Don’t get separated! Eyes wide!”
They darted between shadows, the way fish in a rock pool might dart from stone to stone, at one point passing amongst a small group of the stamping warhorses. Long experience with such beasts allowed Elizabeth to calm them with a touch and a whisper, but further off, some of the more skittish had begun screaming their alarm and rearing up. In minutes, the shouts for help with the fire were joined by shouts for help with the animals and the women found themselves skirting a scene of growing pandemonium. It was all they could do to creep onwards, taking cover where they could, detouring where they had to, to remain in shadow. Praying all the while that either Perceval or Angus would meet them at the gate.
When at last they slipped into its vast shadow, no man stepped forth to greet them. They did, however, discover the inert figure of the guard, curled against a wall where Brenton LeGros had left him.
“Thank God!” Elizabeth murmured. “One of them’s been here!”
“The gate!” Annabel hissed. “Look!”
It was open. Not widely, but ajar. Just enough for their small frames to pass through! Ten steps and they’d be out of Clun Castle!
“God love them!!” Elizabeth whispered. “First step completed!” And one after the other, they slipped out. No one was there to greet them.
“Angus?” Elizabeth ventured into the darkness. “Are you there? Sir Perceval?”
There was no answer. Only the sight, in the distance, of Sir Roland’s scouting party, rapidly reassembling in the village. The smoke from the castle, apparently, had become visible, and the panic audible, to those men, and they were rushing back from their search, so as not to be cut off by whatever attackers were daring the fortress. There was, Elizabeth calculated, time to slip away unseen. But was it wise? On foot, with neither Sir Perceval nor Sir Angus in sight and, for uncounted miles around them nothing but the forbidding wilderness of the Marches?
Elizabeth Douglas was nothing if not decisive.
“Back inside!” she ordered. And once there, “Put your shoulders to this gate!”
“What’s the use of closing it?” Effemy whimpered. “We’d just be locking ourselves in!”
“I don’t want it closed! I want it opened! Just a little more! See what you can do and I’ll be right back!”
They had only minutes but, driven by desperation, the two women managed to shift the massive gate a few inches. Wide enough for the passage of the great war horses that Elizabeth reappeared with. And, within minutes of that – moments before Madeleine would be flung into the madness within – the three Scottish women, each aboard her own courser, galloped across the common and into the forest.
* * * *
Perceval’s wait in the night had been long. He’d purposely let the torchlit scouting party go on ahead. Then, drifting off the roadway, he’d found himself an ideal position from which to watch, unwatched. Or so he’d thought.
His plan was an unformed thing, depending on what distraction Sir Angus might devise. If none was forth-coming, he thought he might create his own, galloping back to the gate to cry out for more soldiers. Mention of the Glyndwr name, he calculated, would stir Sir Roland to empty the castle, if need be! Then, with fewer men to contend with, Angus might be able to knock heads in the darkness and steal some appropriate horses. That done, Perceval calculated, some or all of them could make a run for it.
It was a plan, none of which sat well with Perceval! ‘Making a run for it,’ he’d argued with Marie and Joan, meant entering the forest at night – too risky in too many ways! Lady Joan, however, with her usual headstrong arrogance, had insisted that, in extremity, her noble status would protect them all. Even Marie, who had a more clear-headed understanding of the dangers, had voted against him.
“Her reasoning is foolish,” she’d said to Perceval, out of Joan’s hearing, “but surely the choice is right! The sooner Joan is away from these Marches, the better! She’s not safe here! Whatever the Scots could do to win her, they’ve done. As for the rest, she has no common ground with these people – even though they’re her own people! It is a great risk to go! But maybe it’s a greater one to stay!”
* * * *
Perceval’s presence in the Marches was, in part, a tribute to his fabled father, Enguerrand de Coucy. Enguerrand, the seventh of his name, was still acclaimed, more than twenty years after his death, as the boldest, most honourable knight ever to draw sword in France. But with Enguerrand, everyone declared, the dynasty had saved the best for the last. His only son was the bastard, Perceval, and a bastard son, they said, would never be worthy of the lands, titles and triumphs of his father.
Nonetheless, even without recognition, Perceval’s inheritance had been great: courage, charm, intelligence, an influential name and a vast love of France.
And he also had Marie. Insightful and in love, she had discovered early that Perceval coveted neither lands nor titles, but did need, somehow – he knew not how – to verify the richness of his blood. And so, she had urged him to go where the times dictated he must – to England!
“It is the great battle of our time!” he’d promised her. “France versus England! The future of Europe hangs in the balance! The de Coucy’s must be part of it!”
“Of course we must!” she had agreed. “But not as just one more knight and his poor widowed wife – not as one more poor, doomed target on the battlefield! Think on it, Percy! What priviledge your name would win you in England! What insights you could gain – battle plans, armies, struggles within – for France’s benefit! That’s the way! And how proud your father would be to see the de Coucy name used so wisely in France’s defence!”
And so they’d travelled to England where, sure enough, their charm, their elegance and the de Coucy name had gained them access to King Henry’s royal court. Once admitted, they’d won the trust of both the high and the low – from the nobility to the myriad hangers-on to the inevitable embedded spies – casting about to learn what weaknesses, jealousies, appetites and cravings might be used to distract King Henry from his war.
When mention had finally been made of Joan’s mysterious ‘invitation’ to the Welsh Marches, connections that Joan was unaware of were already old news to Perceval and Marie. They knew of her youthful, romantic anguish and they knew of the secret dream it provoked in Scotland – that it might be used in stimulating the ambitions of her lover, James Stewart! Luring her away to Shropshire, they knew, was both a test of her commitment and an ensurance that, if her love proved false, those who spoke with her had a chance of escape. And so, true to their mission, they’d helped concoct the pilgrimage story and offered their companionship – an offer welcomed by Joan’s indulgent mother and brother. The addition of Sir Cyril had been their only condition.
There was, of course, no thought of harm to Joan. In fact, success for the de Coucy’s couldn’t be claimed until she was safely returned to London and to James Stewart, preferably with a new resolve for abetting his escape. In the best scenario, Scotland might descend into civil anarchy which would require the attention of King Henry’s army, thereby taking the pressure off France, at least in the short term. If Perceval’s father, had he been alive to see, he’d have chuckled with enthusiasm for the ingenuity of his son and daughter-in-law.
* * * *
Perceval, waiting in the dark, had been mentally rechecking the strands in this web when the cloud cover first signalled its intention to show the moon. He’d dismounted then and crept closer to the lone little wagon of the fortune-teller, hoping merely to blend further into the almost impenetrable landscape. The Cunning Woman, he assumed, would likely be wherever the villagers had gone.
Up the hill from him was the castle, with its torch
-spotted walls and lighted windows. Down the hill was the village, with the pinprick lights of the scouting party, moving into and out of the houses. At one stage, he thought he saw a small, nonchalant shadow – the shadow of a child, perhaps – wander across in front of him, coming from the direction of the castle. He briefly pondered the unlikeliness of that then went back to watching. It was clear to him that the scouting party must soon return. The gates would then be locked and the last chance for escape would be lost. Very well, then! If Angus’s effort at distraction had failed, it was up to him! He stood up and prepared to re-mount his horse.
“Wait,” said a small voice from very near by.
Perceval felt the hairs on his neck dance to attention and his sword seemed almost to leap to his hand. The woman’s voice chuckled
“It’s an old woman, Sir Knight! D’ye really think ye’ll be needin’ that?”
He saw her then, a small, dull, folded shape, seated on the ground. He might well have tripped over her had he stepped in that direction. He squinted down at her and a vagrant skerrick of light reflected back at him from her eyes.
“I was startled, madame! You are here alone?”
“I’m seldom alone,” she answered and he caught again a hint of laughter. “But, if ye’re askin’ if there’s anyone else with me, there is not.”
“Truly?” Perceval stammered, trying to assess what impact her presence might have on the night’s events. “It is dangerous for a woman alone, no? There are no villagers with you?”
“The villagers,” she said contentedly, “are all wi’ the false Glyndwr, Mister! An’ if ye’re wonderin’ why I ent, it’s because, like you, I’m guardin’ a treasure!”
“A treasure? Madame, you mistake me, I think! I have no treasure!”
“Didn’t say it was yours, did I? Nor mine neither! Only guardin’ it, you ‘n’ me! Locks ‘n’ keys, are us!”
“You speak in riddles, madame. Eh bien! I have no time for it. I tell you again, though, madame . . . there is danger here! I advise you to find company!”
“Oh? Find company, is it? A notable Cunnin’ Woman such as meself, an’ ye’re thinkin’ I might be missin’ what’s happenin’ on me very shirt front! Ye’re not very good at this, are ye?”
“No? What should I be thinking then?”
“Arr now, that’s more like it! A sensible gentleman always asks fer a lady’s opinion! So! What about thinkin’ if I’ve a weapon or not then!”
“Really madame! I haven’t time for this! I’m . . .”
“Ye’re what? Too busy guardin’ a treasure ye know nothin’ about? Then I’ll save ye the trouble, Sir Perceval. I do ‘ave a weapon – one’ll beat yours every time! It’s knowledge! Knowledge!”
“Knowledge? Madame, you confuse yourself, non? Tricks with cards and stones are not knowledge! No, no, no! If they were, they would have told you – what happens tonight in Clun is work for swords! Believe me. You must take my advice and be still. Do not be noticed. Now, excusez moi! I must go. I’ve waited too long already.”
“That, ye have not, Perceval de Coucy. An’ that bit o’ knowledge, I pass from me to you for free! Your friend will act very soon.”
“My friend? Will act? How can you know this? No one knows . . .”
“I already told ye! I know! An’ there’s a secon’ thing I know ‘s well! But this one’ll cost ye.”
“Cost me?” he said. “Cost me what?” He began patting his clothing and was reminded that he’d not brought his purse. Without money, the journey back to London would be difficult.
“Not money, Mister. A promise!”
“A promise? What promise?”
“Promise me ye’ll do what ye can for the village girl. When the time comes.”
“Village girl? Maude?”
“No, not Maude. I’m ‘ere for Maude. But the sister – the dark-haired one –Maddy. She’ll be needin’ all the ‘elp she can get, soon. Make me a promise, Mister, that ye’ll protect her – as ye can, when ye can. Do that, an’ I’ll tell ye the question ye should’ve been askin’ all along!”
Perceval was baffled at the strangeness of the request. He was yet unsure that he could protect his wife and Lady Joan in the perilous atmosphere of Clun Castle. Was he now being asked to take on one of Sir Roland’s prisoners, as well?
“C’est bien. Of course! As I can, when I can! No true knight would do less! And so, if you please! What is this question?”
“The question ye should be askin’ is to yerself. Ask yerself what knowledge ye don’t have!”
It was at that point that a glowing column of smoke began to rise from the castle’s bailey and there was an outbreak of comment and shouting from soldiers on the curtain wall.
“Ahh!” said Myfanwy. “A foolish old woman who don’t know enough to find company on Hallowe’en – teaches ye the value o’ patience, eh Sir Knight? D’ye see ‘ow ye might’ve spoiled things by ridin’ out too soon?”
He couldn’t suppress the feeling of relief that welled up in him.
“Ah ha!” he laughed. “My apology madame! I am too quick to judge, eh? It’s a fault! So! Now I must take time to ask myself your question: What knowledge don’t I have?”
“Ye don’t know,” she said, turning her head fully toward him, so that her eyes glowed, like the eyes of a cat, “about the boy behind you.”
That warning struck Perceval’s ears at the same moment as the length of firewood in Jack Sorespot’s hand collided with the back of his head. Jack’s year of living wild had indeed made him a stealthy hunter. Perceval went down. His senses didn’t entirely desert him but they did become, for a short while, like a tin of spilled oats that have to be painstakingly re-collected.
Jack stood over him, prepared to strike again, but Myfanwy, rising slowly to her feet, held him back.
“Hold off now! No gain in addlin’ ‘is brains altogether!” She grasped his shoulders and turned him so the peeping moon could show him more clearly. “Aye! I wasn’t sure what to expect, but ‘ere ye are, red-haired an’ all! An’ I s’pose I’ve seen unlikelier sorts! Look ‘ee, I’ve somethin’ for ye.” She took his wrist and shook the stick loose, replacing it with a small leather pouch. “Bee balm,” she said, “to stop bleedin’. An’ sage for later. Wrapped against a wound, it speeds healin’.”
“A wound? But there’s no wound! I need what ye gave before . . . to big Brenton! Somethin’ for .. .”
“Hush yerself!” she commanded. “This is not for the old man.”
“But. . .!”
“Nay, young ‘un! Watch ‘n’ listen, now. The night speaks.”
She looked to the roiling column of smoke, now grown huge, and she looked to the village, where riders had already begun to assemble for the canter back to the castle.
“There!” she prompted, and Jack saw the shadows of three people, leading great horses, slipping from the castle’s gate. They left the main track immediately, sliding through the gloom below the wall and melting away into the darkness.
“This knight would have followed them,” Myfanwy said, “an’ that would’ve been a great mistake! So ye see, lad? Ye’ve done ye’re today’s part in the world’s business, by causin’ him to stay. Put these medicines away now, inside your blouse. Ye’re own business is yet to finish!”
Myfanwy squatted again and pulled Jack down beside her. The thud of hooves grew louder as the half dozen knights of the scouting party approached. Their torches were held high to light the way for the horses and in the light of one, laid across the saddle in front of the rider, Jack saw the strange flopping movement of a body. It was the body of Roger Ringworm
* * * *
The horse that had reared over Madeleine’s prone body was not one of the riderless, panicked war-horses. In fact, though it had seemed great, it was actually a small pony, graceful and light of step. It belonged to Marie de Coucy and Marie herself had been mounted on its back.
In Marie and Joan’s minds, the escape plan had looked like thi
s: Sir Angus would somehow (no one knew how!) distract the soldiers; the soldiers would lose their focus, Perceval would get the gate opened and, in the midst of the confusion, they (along with the Scots) would ride away into the night. To that end, they’d gone to the stables, saddled their own horses and waited excitedly for events to unfold.
When the smell of smoke and the audible mayhem of horses entered the stable, it was clear that the unfolding had begun. They’d walked their horses to the stable door, peeped out and seen two striking things. One was that the gate, true to the plan, was open – not widely, but open! The other was that a girl – a village or servant girl who neither knew – had somehow fallen into the mad ambit of the castle steward, Samuel Rowe.
Even across the large yard, without being able to hear his words, it had been obvious that Rowe was on a mission that did not include mercy or kindness. Not a problem technically, of course. The ease with which peasants could be disposed of was a major part of their value! No, the problem was that Marie, despite her present company, was not, herself, far removed from that class. Consequently, the sight of a raggedy girl, scuttling hopelessly over the stones on her backside, was not one she could easily ignore. Consequently, without the least hesitation, she’d mounted and spurred her pony across the ground.
The pony was not accustomed to being used as a weapon but, when Marie pulled it up onto its hind legs, its hooves flailed dangerously about Rowe’s head. He looked up and stepped back from Maddy, but there was no panic in him. Horses reckoned heavily in his everyday business and he didn’t fear them. Its proximity did, however, remind him of what he did fear. Not lying, spying village girls who could be dealt with any time! (The peasants, after all, were always there when you wanted them.) No, his great fear was fire! Fire would not wait! And the castle – his and Thomas FitzAlan’s castle – was alight!
So when Marie’s pony reared over him, Samuel Rowe simply stepped away and, with barely a moment’s pause, turned and ran, his mind already set on gathering men and organising buckets from the cistern.
The pony’s hooves would land on either side of Madeleine’s head, leaving her unscathed. But the sight of the creature’s chest falling toward her was like a flood of blackness gushing into her mind, leaving only a tiny boat of an image bobbing on its surface. It was an image of her sisters with her father and mother – the four of them – gazing about in anguish – looking for her. The conviction that she would never again be found instilled such fear and despair in her that she fainted dead away.
Children of Clun Page 28