Children of Clun

by Robert Nicholls

  He pulled the stable door shut, locking them all in, and the girls backed away slowly. Only minutes ago, they’d heard him order their deaths. They would not have been surprised to learn that the idea wobbling back into his mind now was that he could yet kill them. That if he left Cyril’s dagger embedded in one of their throats, blame would be cast on that hapless man.

  “Stand aside, Mister Rowe!” Joan tried vainly to bluster. “I warn you! The king will hang your guts on Tower Bridge if you harm us!”

  Marie, however, acknowledging the brink on which Rowe clearly teetered, offered placatory words.

  “It’s all right, Mister Rowe! Of course we’ll help! We want to help! But you must open the door! For the smoke! We won’t be able to breathe!”

  She grabbed two of the buckets used to carry water from the cisterns and thrust one at Joan but Joan, against all good sense, refused to take it. Why? For one thing, though she was young – barely sixteen – she had, like Beatrice, made a life-long study of cantankerousness and being instructed did not sit well with her. For another, her life of privilege had conditioned her to expect others to do her bidding – not vice versa. For a third, having no real commitments in life (aside from herself) she really didn’t understand the nature, let alone the depth, of Rowe’s passion. And for a fourth, like most people, she’d never before encountered real madness.

  She drew herself up to her fullest height and, with all the authority that she imagined was hers, she repeated her demand.

  “Mr Rowe! You are to open the door this minute!”

  Indeed, such a demand from such a person, in other circumstances and times, would easily have been enough to stifle any independent thought in Rowe. But this moment, his senses of duty, caution and panic were pell-mell in a chaotic duel with one another for his attention. His sense of duty was braying loftily, ‘If the castle falls, you are a broken man! Your duty is to Thomas FitzAlan – to the great Lords of Arundel! The castle must be protected!’

  Alternatively, the message from his sense of panic was shrill and simple: ‘This is the king’s niece! You cannot force her! Unless you intend to kill her afterwards!’ And from the bottom of the heap, his sense of caution squawked like a sacrificial chicken: ‘Let them go! Save them and they will save you!’

  Perhaps he’d have listened to his sense of caution and let them go had Lady Joan not, foolishly and unknowingly, taken it upon herself to further feed his panic.

  “We heard you plotting with Sir Cyril!” she blustered. “Plotting to kill us! You, Sir, are a scoundrel! And a blackguard! And . . . and my uncle, the king, will hear of your treachery!”

  “Treachery?” Samuel Rowe was staggered by the accusation. “Treachery?” The fire hissed and crackled and surged higher, sticking out its chest and snapping its fingers. In response, Rowe dragged out his sense of caution and strangled it before her very eyes.

  “How dare you to speak to me of treachery, you vile, spoiled, arrogant little witch!” He pressed closer, making little jabbing motions with the pitchfork but Joan stood stolidly, possibly shocked into stillness by such an unprecedented attack on her royal character. The smoke moiled about ever more densely against the ceiling, as though trying to sniff them out.

  “I’ve given my life to the service of this castle! And its lords! And these lands! What have you ever done in the service of – of anyone?” he wildly croaked. “Anyone but yourself, that is! You travel about the country – demanding the services of others! So high and mighty! You aren’t fit to lick the shoes . . .! What are you doing here? Why did you have to come to my castle? You could have gone anywhere! For all anyone knows . . . you could be a traitor . . . plotting something – mixing with those Scottish wenches! Why did any of you have to come to . . . !"

  The look on Joan’s face pulled him up short. It was the sort of expression one might wear if a secret, whispered in the night to a lover, was heard the next morning, being broadcast in a public proclamation.

  “My God!” Rowe exclaimed. His astonishment carried him a step back toward rationality: his familiarity with subterfuge carried him a step toward the truth. He lowered the pitchfork. “That’s it! You came here to meet Elizabeth Douglas! She came here to meet you! Lord help us all! That’s the one possibility Sir Roland didn’t think of! The king’s niece . . . involved in a plot! But what could it be then, eh? Is it James Stewart? The king’s prisoner? Is it? Of course! Of course it is! I can see it in your face! You want to give him back his kingdom, don’t you! Hah! I’m right, aren’t I? And I suppose you intend to be his queen?”

  Rowe’s inner dialogue, so tangled and turbulent, flared with a decidedly rosy hue, despite the thickening of the air around him. “You?” he coughed, managing to achieve an air of sarcasm. “You? A queen? Ridiculous! Do you hear me? I’d pity anyone who ever supported you! You have no idea! No concept of the commitment it takes – to be worthy of loyalty! You shame your own family! The king himself . . . your uncle . . . would despise you for your selfish . . . !”

  He indicated the fire which, like his own emotions, was still, but only barely, at a controllable state. “Help me with this fire, Lady Joan!” His eyes watered and swam in the smoke. “Pick up the bucket! Fetch water! You can be my Queen of the Stables. Perhaps we can yet allow one another life! When the fire’s out!”

  It was at that point that Beatrice, the cow, finally understood what the pulling and yanking and slapping had been about. “Maaaaaahhhhhh!” she wailed, in her loudest, most ‘Holy-smoke-the–barn’s-on-fire!’ sort of moo and churned backwards out of her stall. The moment her head was clear of the wall, she lifted her tail, lowered her horns and bolted for the door.

  Rowe was standing in the runway. The door was behind him. And Beatrice, thinking: If people are too stupid to recognise the danger of playing with fire, that’s their own never-mind, charged straight at him. Her udder banged painfully between her legs and milk flurped in all directions, but she was not about to make a detour for anyone! It was only at the last moment that Rowe flung himself to one side, in the process losing both the pitchfork and his footing, as Beatrice cracked the door open with her horns and waddled out into the night.

  “Run!” screamed Marie as Rowe struggled to right himself, and she too set off, with all the determination of, and a good deal more grace than, Beatrice! She was out and gone in the time it took him to lift his pitchfork. Joan, however, had not budged.

  Some very irregular and slightly astonishing thing was in the process of happening to Joan. Rowe’s words – mad, reckless and self-serving though they’d been – had felt a little like someone grabbing her ears and forcing her to look into a deep, deep mirror. At first she’d thought: How dare this little man – this . . . this steward of Clun Castle? But then, somehow, it came about that she saw something – just an inkling of how others must see her and she was embarrassed – again! Her character, her ambitions and her capabilities had always been things that, like all children, she was readily defensive of, but could never, for the life of her, have defended.

  Spoiled? Certainly, people were required to pick up for her, to give in to her wishes and to tend to her needs! It had always happened and she expected it always to happen! Marie and Sir Perceval, for instance – she’d pretty much told them they must accompany her to Clun! She’d revealed her dangerous secret to them, simply expecting them to accept it and to protect her!

  Selfish? Well, in fact, she had put her friends in great danger! It had been selfish and it did smack of disloyalty! Treachery, even! To her own friends and family! Her uncle – as king – had killed people for much less! How awful if he, not to mention her own father, the Earl of Somerset – or her grandfather, the redoubtable John of Gaunt – how awful if they would be disappointed – or worse, ashamed of her, as Rowe had said!

  And as for her ambitions! She most certainly did want James free, to take up his rightful place as king in Scotland. But did she also want to be his queen? He was a good man – would be a very fine king – makin
g judgements for the wise rule of his people! And more importantly, she loved him. Yes! She decided, Yes, she did want to be his queen! But only if she was worthy!

  And yet, how could you measure worthiness? Sir Cyril, for all his strength and courage and prowess with weapons – had he been worthy of his knighthood? Marie had shown courage as well; had risked her life to drive Mister Rowe away from the village girl – risked it even for a cow! And the village girl herself – Madeleine – had nearly been killed trying to lure Sir Cyril away from their hiding place! Perhaps worthiness had something to do with what a person could find in themself! But perhaps it also had to do with what one could find in others?

  In other words, the peculiar focus of which the mind is capable, even when cows are bawling, friends are running and smoke is gathering, had temporarily diverted Joan’s attention from the urgency of the present situation. When her focus began to return, resolving itself like an image in a frosted glass, she realised at last that Marie was gone. And she was alone. Alone with Samuel Rowe and his hatred.

  Chapter 39 – Roger, Joan and Samuel Rowe

  In every community, levels of turmoil are as numerous as the plights of water bugs on a pond. Some share a meal with neighbours while others become meals for their neighbours. Some doze in the shadows while others skate recklessly in the sun. Some argue the purpose of dragonflies while others pray they’ll simply survive the day. So it was in Clun as time froze in the dying hour of All Hallows Eve.

  At the castle gate, the three-way conversation between Sir Roland, the false Owain Glyndwr and the reeve had faltered and failed. They, along with the mass of villagers, continued to wait, huddled against the cold, for the some sign of a resolution.

  At Myfanwy’s cart, Maude quaked in the older woman’s arms, somehow made newly aware of the shriek and celebratory howl of the spirits as they danced once more on the green earth of the living. Beside them, Angus of Atholl stood woozily, gazing in anguish at the dark forest road and wondering where his charges might be.

  In the castle, in the middle of the bailey, Marie de Coucy’s relief at escaping had also turned to anguish, which spiralled quickly toward despair as gouts of flame and smoke hammered through the walls of the stable where Joan and Samuel Rowe remained. And yet, only fifty yards away, Anwen slept peacefully in a haystack in the arms of a battered man she had decided to love.

  Just inside the castle gate, Roger Ringworm was similarly reclined, though he lay on his back, alone on cold stones. All his good luck charms had fallen from his neck. The mole’s foot, the bent coin, the iron nail, the lucky bone – all had scattered across the common on the ride from the village. Still, he smiled peacefully up at starlight, while his blood oozed. Not too far away, Madeleine opened her eyes to the same stars and the tender ministrations of Eustace, the boy who had killed for her. And back in the centre of the bailey, Breatrice the cow, oblivious to all of them, raised her tail, squirted a stream of urine and gazed about in a whistful search for Hubert.

  * * * *

  And then time, as it must do, moved on. At the interface between out and in, the postern gate gave the merest squeak. Sir Perceval de Coucy prised it open, peered tentatively in and, with Jack Sorespot at his shoulder, entered the bailey of what had become for him an enemy castle. The picture it presented was a bizarrely contrasting one; in the distance, the emerging whoosh and crackle of hidden fire and the low billow of new smoke. And yet, when he looked for signs of outcry or movement or panic, there were none! Only the unmoving silhouettes of watchers.

  Attempting to decide a course of action, it occurred to Perceval at last how unhelpful the Cunning Woman had been! She surely knew, but had failed to reveal, what dangers waited inside the walls. Or even what they were expected to do once they’d gotten in! ‘Be true to your name,’ she’d said. ‘Remember your promise!’ That was all? He looked to Jack who pointed to the sodden haystack. Ah! Of course! Begin with the hiding place that Maude had described!

  Together, they crept up to it and Jack called softly, “Annie?” There was no answer. For Anwen, it was a voice outside a dream, a voice from a different sleep. Not insistent enough to be listened to. Jack was about to call a second time when Perceval placed a quieting hand on his shoulder. He had suddenly recognised one of the far off silhouetted figures. It was Marie! Abandoning all caution, he sped off and Jack, making a mental note of the peacefulness of the haystack, followed.

  Though their time apart had been brief, it had been eventful for both Marie and Perceval. They swirled into one another’s arms, Marie instantly giving voice to her distress. Sir Cyril was dead! The steward had gone mad! He’d tried to kill them! And was now trapped in the burning stable! With Lady Joan! The smoke, she pointed out, now filled the narrow slot of the stable door as completely as the ocean fills a crack in a ship. It was impossible to see in.

  “And Sir Roland! What is his part in this terrible plot?”

  On that point at least, Perceval was able to put her mind at rest. They were safe from Roland for the moment. He was on the wall, by the gatehouse – bargaining with the villagers – counting, no doubt, on Samuel Rowe to deal with the mayhem in the bailey. The rebel, Owain Glyndwr, (he found himself shouting over the sucking rumble of the fire) was with them, and Roland’s attention was fully on that man!

  Marie, despite being only a female – despite being the wife of a man who was only the bastard son of the most famous knight in all of Christendom, was a woman who’d heard enough and seen enough of knights – and of knights gone bad (Sir Cyril being the most recent) – to know that such negotiations could go on until there was nothing left to negotiate for.

  “The gates must be opened, Percy!” she declared. “Let everyone in! Let them take their children! In return, they’ll help with the fire! Quickly, Percy! Before it’s too late for Joan!”

  Perceval, actually being the bastard son of the most famous knight in all of Christendom, had only a passing loyalty to the aristocracy. Still, such a drastic move – turning a castle over to angry peasants – made him hesitate. Not that he didn’t have a fondness for peasants (he began to argue with himself). He did! In fact, in the little village of Aubermont, the fiefdom he’d inherited from his father, he was very fond of mixing in and . . .!

  “I’ll do it!” he heard Jack say and, though he reached out to stop him, Jack was off, sprint-hopping on his injured leg, heading for the front gate.

  “Be careful!” Perceval shouted, shaking his head in frustration. He was almost certain that no soldiers would be left in the bailey – not with the night and a potential enemy looming outside the gate. Not even a stable fire would likely bring them down off the wall. Nerves would be taut, though, and when armed men are nervous, not even small boys are safe. Still, what could he do? He turned, grasped Marie’s face briefly and ran toward the smoke filled stable door.

  * * * *

  There was no need to remind Jack of the need for care. A year of living wild had made him as wary as a stoat. He raced in his hopping gait across the bailey, making for a knot of horses tethered close inside the gate. Among the animals, far from the fire, the night seemed almost quiet again. He could hear above, the coughing, snuffling conversations of men on the wall, none willing to move lest they miss the spectacle of the legendary Owain Glyndwr putting himself into the hands of Roland Lenthall. Jack slipped from the cover of the horses to the cover of the wall and from there, in the deep shadow, a wee little voice spoke to him.

  “Hi, you,” it said, wrenching a startled huff from the furtive Jack.

  “Rog’? ‘Sthat you? My God, boy, what’ve they done te ye? Are ye kilt?” Bending to Roger’s side, Jack could feel only stillness. He patted Roger’s chest. “Speak up, Rog’! Don’t ye be playing the goat wi’ me, or by God I’ll . . .” His had slid into the warm ooze of the wound.

  For a boy born to a family that could not afford to feed him; for a boy farmed out at an early age to ream out sewerage flues and carry shite; for a boy despondent enough to risk
living wild in the unwelcoming Welsh Marshes; for a boy like Jack Sorespot, a friend is a rare gift – a miracle, really; not to be taken or lost lightly. This was the moment when Jack learned that fact.

  The discovery of Roger’s blood released, from somewhere deep below Jack’s heart, a long, wailing banshee howl of despair. Ragged and thin, it peeled out of his throat only to be snatched away by the greedy night and by the cold stones of Clun Castle. But it was not lost. Close behind it, like a fiery tail behind a great black kite, it drew Jack’s steadfast and absolute rejection of all the mistrust, deception and evil that he had experienced in his life – all the unmitigated harm that people everywhere so casually inflict on one another. Happen what may to himself, Jack would not permit calamity to overtake this most harmless and trusting of friends.

  He leapt to his feet and slammed his shoulder into the gate, pushing with all his might. “RICHARRRD!” he screamed. Horses whinnied and reared, men jumped up, the stars sparkled serenely and the gate swung slowly open. “RICHARRRRD!”

  Out on the common, Richard spun in a frantic half circle, looking for the boy. The minute he spied the gate’s begrudging movement and heard the second call, he set off at the fastest pace his gout-ridden, arthritic old frame could manage. Gwilym, nervous with inaction, galloped after and, like snow chasing itself down a hill, the rest of the people followed. The anger that had brought them to the evening’s risky confrontation – anger that had begun to cool with Roland’s reluctant compromise – needed only that one desperate cry to be renewed. Soldiers or no soldiers. In the confusion of the moment, no one tried to stop them.

  * * * *

  On the common, Myfanwy heard the cry, knew its source and cause. She pushed the ropey red strands of hair from Maude’s forehead and the girl came awake. “It is almost over,” Myfanwy said, her eyes feverish and tense. “It’s our time now! To do what we came to do! You must take your sister’s place! Find the boy! Tell him, warmth! Tell him to wrap the wound! Use the sage.”

  Maude rose instantly and gaped around her. The common was empty and a column of smoke rose from the bailey of the castle. “The . . . spirits?” she stammered.