Children of Clun

by Robert Nicholls

  * * * *

  It was slowly dawning on Madeleine that that was what she’d been summoned for; to identify either Richard or Jeremy as Owain Glyndwr. Which meant, presumably, that they were both claiming to be him! Both prepared to take on themselves a burden that she knew the great man himself could no longer bear. The Children of Owain – performing their last service. Madeleine began to shake her head. How could she choose between them?

  “Silence that ruckus!” Sir Roland suddenly bellowed, as though the noise in her mind had become audible to him. But no! His attention had shifted to the entry way, beyond which a riot seemed to be building. In fact, the entire room’s focus had shifted in that direction just in time to see, shouldering past the guard and trailing the group who’d surrounded him – a clutch of goslings to his gander – the loudly insistent Father Reginald.

  “Make way! Make way!” he was shouting. “Make way for the sheriff’s messenger!” Oblivious to the room’s tension, he bustled straight across to Sir Roland.

  “Oh, my Lord! It’s calamity! The stables! With winter upon us! And Mister Rowe dead, the villagers tell me!” He glanced around the room but still the ominousness of the atmosphere eluded him. “The sheriff, Milord, cannot come! He is dead of an illness! I have returned as soon as I . . .!”

  “Stop your gabble, priest!” Sir Roland silenced and dismissed him with a wave. “We’re far past such small solutions!”

  “Yes Milord! Yes, Milord!”

  Father Reginald, having husbanded his little nugget of information so carefully and for so long, was as disappointed as a crutch whose one-legged owner has suddenly sprouted a new limb. Nonetheless, on looking around the company, he was gratified to remember a lesser but still significant task that still remained to him.

  “Ah, Lady Joan! I bear a message for you, Milady! Her ladyship, Mary Gordon, sends . . .”

  His voice choked out as Sir Roland hoisted two fistfuls of Father Reginald’s habit up around the priest’s ears.

  “Mary Gordon, you say? You have a message from Mary Gordon?”

  “Aye, Milord!” Father Reginald’s solid weight kept his feet flat on the floor, but his mouth, he found to his distress, was deeply muffled in the folds of his robe. “Mary Gordon, Milord! Met ‘er on the high-road, Milord!”

  “You met her on the high-road? When?”

  “Early, Milord! Miles along, they were, Milord! Most oddly mounted . . . !”

  “And you spoke to ‘em?”

  “Oh aye, Milord! Couldn’t ‘elp it! Three great ‘orses – most blocked the road, they did!”

  “The brazen cheek! Travelling openly on the king’s high-road! And three of them, you say! Only three? What of the knight? Sir Angus?”

  “P’raps ‘alf a mile behind the ladies, ‘e was, Sir Roland! Ridin’ ‘ard to catch them up! Very pleased, ‘e was, to learn ‘e was so nearly upon ‘em, Milord! Likely stopped to relieve himself, I s’pose, an’ they, bein’ ladies ‘n’ all, ‘ad carried on wi’out a thought for the dangers!”

  “And what? They sent a message? They had the audacity to send a message?”

  “Milord, they did! To Lady Joan de Beaufort, Milord! ‘If she lives’, they said. Milord, they did frighten me . . .!”

  “What’s the message?”

  “Uhhh. It’s for Lady Joan de . . . !”

  “There then!” He released the shaken priest and turned him rudely to face his audience. “Speak your message. NOW!”

  If Father Reginald had any thoughts of staying mum, Roland’s thunder shook them right out of him.

  “It’s just a bit of an old verse, Milord!” he squeaked. “I was bid say:

  * * * *

  ‘The maiden’s heart it quailed not;

  She meekly raised her eye:

  ‘Wolfgang, your arm can never harm

  One that has friend on high:

  He who can make that grain to spring

  And ripen into fruit

  Powers rain and sunshine on your heart,

  And bids your faith take root.’!

  That’s it, Milord!”

  Sir Roland looked across at Lady Joan, whose eyes were locked resolutely on those of Marie. He looked at Perceval who was rubbing his chin in apparent perplexity. He looked all around the room for signs of understanding. There were none. Finally, he looked back at Father Reginald.

  “Where do I know these rhymes from?”

  “Saint Milburga, Milord!”

  “Ah! Of course! Saint Milburga.”

  He scratched at his beard and the silence stretched like a length of new catgut until, finally, he walked in measured steps across to Lady Joan.

  “I would not ordinarily be so bold, Lady Joan,” he said, making the slightest bow of apology. “But you must realise! My duty . . . !” The niceties were beyond him. He gave up and simply demanded, “What does the message mean?”

  From where Madeleine sat, she could see Joan’s hands, gristle-white, grasping Marie’s and trembling like thistledown. It was astonishing to see evidence of fear in such a highborn person. But not as astonishing, it seemed, as the Lady’s power to overcome that fear. Like an actor who suddenly realises that the play has started and all eyes are on her, Joan suddenly straightened her back, raised her chin, turned her eyes to meet Sir Roland’s and gave him a most ingratiating smile.

  “This girl,” she said. Her voice was fragile, paper thin. She paused, cleared her throat and started again, forcing the words away from her. “This girl . . .!”

  Stepping around Sir Roland, she walked directly to Madeleine and put out her hands. Instinctively, Madeleine took them. All four hands were icy and clammy with sweat, even though the hall had been amply warmed by fire.

  “. . . is a daughter,” Joan was saying, her voice gaining strength with each syllable, “of the village reeve – so I’m told.” (Gwilym swallowed mightily. All he wanted was to get his family away – not have them singled out any more.) “Her mother,” Joan continued, “is a . . . brewer?” She glanced back to Sir Roland who nodded curtly. “I daresay you’d not find that as marvellous as I do, Sir Roland, because you see, yesterday, a knight of this realm – a knight sworn to protect me – would have killed me – would have cut my throat, and that of my very dear friend. . . but for the courage of this brewer’s daughter! Some concepts may elude the peasants,” she smiled, referring slyly to Roland’s own assessments, “but England must always be grateful that courage is not one of those. Is that not so, Sir Roland?”

  He set his lips and refused to answer.

  “Yes,” she continued, “and I . . . possibly for the first time in my life . . . I find myself aware of what it means to owe a debt! And for my debt to be owed to a peasant girl – a brewer’s daughter! Well! It’s a lesson, is it not? Truly a marvellous lesson . . . for people such as you and me, Sir Roland! I search my mind for a way to repay her.”

  Though Madeleine’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Roland’s flushed only with scorn. He could see Joan’s tactic – proclaiming a kind of protectorate over the girl. He found a kernel of something in his mouth, chewed it and spat it on the floor.

  “There is only one repayment,” he murmured, “for treason.”

  A stir in the background temporarily dampened the impact of that terrible word as Maude, for the first time that whole morning, made a sound; a gagging sound, followed by a sudden rise to her feet. Whatever her intent was, Myfanwy stilled it with a touch and Joan, with her all-too-familiar aristocratic assurance, turned back to face Sir Roland.

  “I’ve been wondering also, Sir,” she said, “how to repay my debt to you!”

  Roland suspected he knew what was coming – sarcasm, childish accusations, peevish self-pity. He would stand and take whatever complaint she uttered, of course – because he must. But she would soon learn that he was not a man to back off. Daringly, defiantly, he shifted his weight onto one leg and propped his hand on the hilt of his sword. He needn’t have worried.

  “. . . for your ki
nd hospitality,” Joan was saying. “For the concern you’ve shown, for myself and my friends. And also for the care you’ve shown . . . for the king’s devoted subjects, here in Clun. In his name, I thank you. And in my own name, I gladly grant your request.”

  Whether Joan intended it or not, the simple sincerity of her tone utterly disarmed Sir Roland. He’d prepared himself for whatever scorn or veiled references to ‘her uncle the king’ she might wish to dredge up. Indeed, he’d already begun marshalling his response. In the Marches, he would be telling her, life was not as she knew it elsewhere. In the Marches, danger was as real as crabs on the seashore. And furthermore, in Clun, he and he alone represented the king’s order. And no man – no woman, no child – especially not a girl child – no matter what class she’d been born into – would keep him from his duty. He would find out, by whatever means were needed, what intention lay behind the visit of the Scots and the return of Glyndwr.

  That’s what he would have said, had Joan’s directness and reasonableness not so startled him. His hand fell away from his sword and he found himself distributing his weight back onto his two feet.

  “The maiden in the rhyme, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, is doubtless my humble self, Sir Roland.” She gave a little mock curtsy and bobbed her head. “And the ‘friend on high’ is clearly the lord and knight on whose honour and true nature I rely.” She reached out a long, delicate finger which stopped just short of touching the knight’s chest. “That would be you, Sir Knight. As for Wolfgang, whose ‘arm can never harm’ me . . . well, I suspect that our northern friends may have become aware, as I had not, of Sir Cyril’s evil intention toward me. A wickedness from which I was saved by a watchful young bowman – undoubtedly under your wise direction, Mi’lord!”

  Roland’s head was beginning to spin once again. How the devil was anyone to make sense of such nonsense? How was a man to know if this pussy-footing, tale-telling rubbish was giving him the information he needed? In the old days, in the old ways, he’d’ve had the truth out quicker than a tinker hides a penny; as simple as crunching walnuts under a boot. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could contain his anger.

  And he wasn’t being helped by that repeated movement in the background. The reeve’s other daughter – the mopey one! For a second time, she’d moaned; now stood with her arms raised above her head. What was her problem? What did she suddenly have to contribute? The Cunning Woman pressed her again into stillness but the effort Roland needed to keep his temper in check had suddenly become immense.

  “As for the rest,” Lady Joan was saying, “well . . . I fear I have a confession to make. For which, I must now ask your pardon, Sir Roland. The Marches, I have only come to realise – though I’m sure you knew all along – might as well be a foreign land, for all I understand of them! Ignorance . . . tends to be an easy and comfortable fellow, doesn’t he, Sir Roland?” She smiled. He frowned.

  “To the point, your Ladyship?”

  “Of course! Well! The point is, Sir, that I have been guilty of letting my ignorance wander about . . . unsupervised! To gather any number of silly conclusions! One of which was a perception that . . . perhaps all was not well in this corner of the king’s realm! In short, Sir Roland . . . I doubted you! And even worse, in conversation with Mary Gordon, I let that doubt slip. But she, Mi’lord, she told me straight away – and she tells me again in the rhyme – that I was wrong! That we could not hope to have a better, wiser more courageous Lord in Clun!” She gestured broadly. “The grain? The fruit? The rain and the sun? The West Country prospers, Mi’lord! Even as the evil years pass away! Mary Gordon, you see, saw in you what I did not – firm, wise and guiding hands.”

  Her smile had become pensive; almost pleading. “Will you forgive me, Mi’lord?”

  Roland held Joan’s gaze for long moments – much longer than would have been deemed proper by her father. He was not really seeing her, however. In his mind, he was seeing himself, being led by the nose. Did she take him for a man who would be deflected by mere flattery?

  “Why,” he finally asked, putting the question as simply as he could, “was . . . she . . . here?”

  He tried, but could not bring himself to use the name Mary Gordon. In his heart, he knew full well that she was Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of England’s great enemy. And that he had been duped into playing host to her! That thought would never cease to gall.

  Joan flicked him an immediate answer, as though she hadn’t realised that was the information he wanted. And she managed to phrase it in such a way as to keep her, technically, on the solid ground of truth. “For the same reason as I, Mi’lord!” Briefly, there flashed in her mind a horrible image of the glee on Samuel Rowe’s face when the truth had struck him – ‘the one connection Sir Roland hadn’t thought of’. Joan prayed that he wouldn’t think of it now, either, and she hurried on, venturing as close as she dared to the swampy ground of fiction.

  “The holy places, Mi’lord! St Milburga’s Well? That’s why the rhyme, you see? We’d spoken together of the well! Of the saint’s legendary healing powers! Of Lady Godiva’s courageous ride, in defence of her people! Truly, Mi’lord! I give you my word!”

  Roland gave a deep sigh of resignation. She was not going to be cornered. Neither, then, would he. He looked around and thought of witnesses.

  “You!” he barked at Father Reginald. “You say the Scots were well on their way when you met ‘em? Out of the Marches?”

  “Riding like the very devil!” the priest affirmed and crossed himself.

  “And you, Milady,” he boomed out to Lady Joan. “You give your personal word – as niece to great King Harry?”

  “I do, Milord!” she said, loudly enough for all to hear.

  Sir Roland, huffed a snort of air through his nostrils and made up his mind. “So be it, then!” He executed a stiff, shallow bow and stepped back from Lady Joan. “Thank you, Mi’lady.”

  A trickling sense of relief oozed into life throughout the hall. Everyone sensed it. But no one savoured it quite as deeply as did Sir Roland. The sighs, the whispers. He smiled inwardly. They thought it was finished – thought he was beaten. Not even close. He looked at Madeleine and the corners of his mouth twitched. He walked around her for a third time, stroking his throat with the backs of his fingers, looking into the faces of his knights.

  “So I suppose,” he said, “that brings us back . . . to where we began! To the question of these Glyndwrs! And the brewer’s daughter!”

  He stopped in front of Madeleine and crossed his arms, smiling what, to the quaking Madeleine, seemed a surprisingly genuine smile. Every sigh, whisper and foot scuffle was instantly cut short.

  “You’ve been quite a hero, haven’t you young . . . girl!” He didn’t know Madeleine’s name and didn’t really care to find it out. “You’ve saved the life of a great lady! With a little help, of course, from that boy over there.” His eyes didn’t leave Madeleine’s but his head inclined briefly toward Eustace. “I’ve decided to reward that boy, did you know that? No, of course you didn’t. Because I’ve just decided! I’m going to take him into my household at Hampton Court! Maybe give him the privilege of going to the war in France next year. He might even get to fight alongside the king! Are you happy for him?”

  She nodded, more in confusion than agreement.

  “Good, good! You know, I’d like to find you a nice position at Hampton Court as well. Maybe serving Lady Margaret! Would you like that?”

  Madeleine’s mouth hung open. She had no concept of what serving Lady Margaret might entail. He answered for her.

  “Of course you’d like that! Who wouldn’t like that? Get away from this God-forsaken hole! No more pig shite! Such chances don’t come along every day, do they? Not for the likes o’ you, they don’t! But I can make it happen right now!” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “All I need is a little favour from you! You’d not mind a little give-and-take, would you?”

  Madeleine tried to look past him, hoping
for some indication in someone’s eyes, of what she was to do. Roland stepped back from her and held his arms out wide.

  “Yes!” he cried. “Yes! Have a look around! In particular, why don’t you have another look . . . at these two men.” He pointed out Silent Richard and Jeremy. He waited while she looked, swallowed what little spit she could muster and looked back at him.

  “No!” he commanded, holding up a finger. “Don’t say anything! Not yet. Not ‘til I’ve finished my little story. Not ‘til you fully understand . . . how important your words are going to be!” He crossed his arms, spun on his heel and began to pace. “As I was saying . . . last night, I made a bargain. You father, I might point out . . .,” (he stopped in front of Gwilym, looked up into the big man’s eyes), “your father . . . the reeve . . . was one o’ those on the other side o’ that bargain.” He gazed thoughtfully at Gwilym for some moments, then paced on.

  “We agreed to make an exchange, you see! Certain lives – yours, I think, might’ve been one o’ them – in exchange for the surrender of the rebel, Owain Glyndwr. That . . . ,” he bent and looked closely into Madeleine’s face, “. . . was a good bargain! Because I tell you freely, your life is a small thing. In comparison to Owain Glyndwr’s freedom, I mean. You see? In comparison to my showing up in London with that greatly rebellious man in tow! Now . . . in a nutshell, my problem, as I was saying before, is this!” He gestured toward Silent Richard and Jeremy. “Two Glyndwrs! One of which, is surplus to needs.” He stopped again in front of Madeleine.

  “I could, of course . . . bend them a little. See what truths escape them. And that isn’t yet out of the question. But . . . you see . . . as I say, out of deference to Lady Joan . . . and to my wife . . . I have asked. I am asking. Only for some . . . clarification, you understand! Now! I have been led to believe that you, your sister and the man LeGros spent time in the forest with Glyndwr and his band of ‘aged children’ – the so-called Plant Owain. Whether as guests or prisoners, I neither know nor care! But this is the point where your help comes in, see? Because, at present, LeGros is unable to speak. And your sister insists she never met the great man. And your father doesn’t know his elbow from his arse! And these boys . . .” (he indicated Jack and Roger) “well . . . I don’t even know what their role is in all this. But one is sorely wounded. And the other . . . well, he reckons he doesn’t want to speak to me – so far, at least.” He rounded on Madeleine, grim faced, fists on hips. “A smart, brave village girl such as yourself – with very much to gain from having a good memory – would see where I’m going with this, wouldn’t she?”