Court of Foxes

by Christianna Brand

  Five days later a letter arrived via the corn chandler of Caio, larded with respectful compliments that made her bite hard on her lip at the vision of her dear family sitting down solemnly to compose them; of more sincere exclamations as to the dangers and anxieties of her plight. She summoned Lord Tregaron to her room, the only place of privacy available. ‘I see now, my lord, that you haven’t after all exaggerated the difficulties.’

  He looked troubled; almost angry. ‘I also have had letters; my case seems for the moment hopeless. I can only advise you to write again and with the utmost urgency.’ She began to be afraid that in hopes of her succeeding, he would relax his own efforts to get her released, and to wish that she had antagonised him less. She went up close to him. ‘In view of all this, my lord — I must take back words that I spoke last time we discussed the matter. I know that in truth you grudge me nothing, would give all you have to get me out of this horrible danger.’ And smiled at him wistfully and said that though she tried to put a brave face on it, tried to seem bold and — and careless, rough perhaps — she was in truth anxious and frightened, sick with hope of an early release; and growing weary, weary of the company of none but serving maids and doxies…

  ‘You might have had that of your husband,’ he said stiffly, ‘if you had cared for it.’

  ‘Might I?’ she said innocently. ‘I began to doubt it.’ And she turned angelic eyes to the huge, soft couch of linen and hay. ‘Of all the nights of my marriage, my lord, I’ve spent all but one alone.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said bowing, ‘since I have not been present to make sure of it myself.’

  She went scarlet. She said sharply: ‘Your absence has been of your own making.’

  ‘Do you think I should wish to lie in arms that ache only to hold another man, and that my own brother?’ Fop and whipper-snapper, yes, she thought, but in these moods at least he was a man; and it vastly became him. And seeing the dark face grow darker, the bright eye brighter, the thin, hard lips grow grim with anger at the memory of her offence against him, she felt her own blood rise, felt within her the first piercing stab of that now familiar surrender, half slavish, half arrogant, to this same manliness. A pang of shame assailed her, but after all — what had this to do with love? Her own love was not there to take her; in these other arms she had found, if not happiness, at least a very abandonment of pleasure. She went up close to him, putting her hands behind her back, leaning her white breast against his breast, lifting her lovely face to his. ‘But your brother is not here,’ she said. ‘And after all — are you not my lord and husband…?’

  The face growing white, the pinched nostrils, the strong hands gripping her arms, forcing her away — only to catch her back close against his body… Excitement rose in her, excitement and triumph: tumbling down under him to the yielding nest of the bed, shaking loose the soft wild silk of her yellow hair so that he buried his fingers in it, holding her head in both hands, his hard mouth brutal with kisses. And he took her briefly, violently, so that she almost screamed with the pleasure and pain of it; and lay not a moment more but rose and pulled her up roughly, to stand in front of him…

  And slapped her once across her face, still sick with the satiation of his embraces; and went out of the room.

  * Y Cadno: pronounced Uh Cadno.

  ** Cwrt y Cadno — pronounced (roughly) Coort-uh-Cadno, sounding the r.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE AFTERNOON WAS BALMY and fair, the day far lighter and warmer than had been the evening of their arrival, now more than a week ago. Tables had been dragged out and placed end to end upon the open patch before the great division between two boulders which served as a front entrance to the rock fortress; with benches placed along their length and a few wooden chairs, carved in hours of idleness into things of beauty. The women were busy laying out a feast in prospect of a triumph. Tonight a group of drovers would be passing along the road from Cilycwm.

  Each year in spring and autumn, from innumerable small farms scattered about the three western counties, the beef cattle were bought and assembled into great herds, to be driven at last to the few great markets whence they could be again distributed — London, Barnet, Rugby and the rest. Fattened up for the long journey, driven by devious ways over the mountains to avoid the heavy fares at the toll gates across the roads — which later the Rebecca Riots would help to abolish — hastening to catch the right moment for crossing the River Wye at Erwood, when the water would be low enough for fording, without the great expense of ferrying the beasts across; and so on to Paincastle where the soft hooves must be shod for the roads of England. Slowly, slowly, browsing as they went, the great herds moved forward, caked in mud, or cloudy with dust if the roads were dry; to be fattened up again at a ha’penny per beast, in the grazing grounds before town. And so to Smithfield and long days of bartering, arguing, haggling, chaffering all over again in the evenings at the Lock and Key; and the two or three weeks of rest at last, before the long trek home.

  At twelve pounds a beast or more, the sums accumulated were large: the profits of a whole year of hard work, breeding, selecting, fattening and at last delivering. They travelled usually, for safety, in large groups, sufficient to out-match any lone footpad or highwayman — and most worked alone. But by the time they reached Llandovery, many would have peeled off and taken more direct routes to their own homes, and those that made for Lampeter and further west must pass through Cilycwm and the narrow valley leading on to Pumsaint, by way of Cwrt y Cadno. The Fox’s gang was their last hazard and their worst.

  And tonight they came.

  The women worked gaily, their children running at their skirts. Crusty loaves were being baked in the big brick ovens, filled with burning wood, scooped out when the oven was hot enough to take the risen dough; there were joints of mutton from sheep rustled from their grazing grounds on the mountain tops with the aid of the clever, shaggy sheep dogs, hams from the farms of more distant neighbours — it was wise policy to keep on good terms with those closer to them — great mounds of their own salty butter and home-churned cheese; wines and delicacies from intended picnic meals of travellers left to go hungry. The Countess of Tregaron entered into it with the rest, decorating the table with great bowls of gorse, coconut-scented and as blazing with gold as her own bright head. Lord Tregaron came upon her there. ‘For God’s sake — must you bring yourself down to the level of a scullion?’

  They allowed him to go riding now, for exercise, though always with an armed guard; she had watched him with envy, ambling off on one of the brave little ponies, born wild on these bare mountain tops, caught and trained for the work of the gang. ‘You have something to do with your time. I have nothing but this. It amuses me.’

  ‘Will it amuse you when your maid spreads the news at Castell Cothi? — how you ran to and fro laying dishes for this scum of the countryside.’

  ‘She runs to and fro pretty merrily herself,’ said Marigelda. ‘A fine waiting woman your sister has trained up! I saw her exchanging embraces with the Devil himself, with Dio, before the men rode off.’

  ‘I hope they ride to some purpose,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘The Fox is uneasy about the whole business, it makes him irritable and therefore dangerous. It is to our interest, I fear, that they do well.’

  Vain hope. They came trit-trotting back at last, by no means triumphant, for the gold had indeed been well guarded it seemed, and many of those who actually carried it had escaped with their store. And one of their own number had been wounded and left to die or be captured, as luck befell him. But to die would be best. ‘He’ll be strung up, sure,’ said Dio gloomily, throwing himself down upon a bench and snapping his fingers for a child to come and drag off his boots, ‘and left to swing and his hand lopped off, as like as not, as he hangs there, and a hank of his hair, to make a Hand of Glory. They thrust wicks in under the nails,’ he explained to an open-mouthed Gilda, ‘made from the man’s own hair and soaked in grease from his body — it must be no
other; and carry it blazing, for a sort of charm. They say none stirs in a rifled house when the thieves light their way by a Hand of Glory.’

  ‘Dear God, how disgusting!’

  He shrugged. ‘What matter, if one’s dead? And so, I say, I wish poor Twm may be dead, for his own sake.’

  ‘But couldn’t you,’ she said, horrified, ‘have brought your friend away?’

  ‘What and risk the same fate, Madam fach?’ He repeated her question in Welsh and they all burst out into laughter; a too ready laughter, she thought, as though no pitiful, pitiless joke were too small to catch on to: as though a shudder ran through them all which said: His turn today — tomorrow mine.*

  Nor was their unease without reason. The Fox, it seemed, had dragged himself from his sick-bed and summoned the men to the council rock — that boulder on which she had seen Dio perched, planning this very adventure. He was enraged, Tregaron had told her, at the failure of the foray and the loss of a man. They stood together and watched from a respectful distance as he came out, painfully limping, supported on either side by Dio and another of the elders, Huw the Harp — wrapped in a rough blanket held about him like a cloak, wearing the cap of red fox-skin; and stood swaying, spitting out at them what seemed to her but a very few half-whispered words, to have sent them all away so hang-dog and shameful. The scared girls, running after them, anxiously questioning, were told angrily to cut the gabble and bring something of better comfort than quacking and kisses. Very soon the meal was in progress, and, stuffed to capacity at last, they turned to drowning their sorrows in drinking, growing ever more wild and uproarious as their cares fell away into oblivion; and against the sunset sky, the first star appeared, a sentinel rider was lit for a moment to a tiny statue of gold.

  Gilda sat at the top of the long table, solitary; repelled yet fascinated, her husband, as solitary, at the far end of it. And so might we be sitting, she thought, at this very moment, languid, bored, speechless one at either end of a table as long, ringed round by servants, in some great, gloomy dining-hall at Castell Cothi: just as we sat, for that matter, at our wedding dinner in Hanover Square. All about her the women drank almost equally with the men and soon were half intoxicated at least, running about, noisy and abandoned as children; like anything but children in the direction of their abandonment. Three girls ran back to their quarters and reappeared, dressed in the traditional costume of the county, the ankle-length brick-red striped petticoats under the turned-back skirts, the trim jackets, the little fringed shawls, the black chimney-pot hats lined with white frilling: and were lifted up on to the table and there danced, jigging and tripping, the country dances of their childhood in more innocent places — the men tossing up the red petticoats as they danced to peer at the nakedness underneath, falling to fisticuffs with such of their companions as, drunkenly aggressive, took exception, or with their own women. And the women were fit for it, strong in wrist and arm and not too particular how they used elbows and knees. Now and again a man fell heavily, groaning and, struggling up, laid about his girl in good earnest until he was set upon by other women and she was pulled out of harm’s way… As night fell, the new lit torches blazed up upon what had so far been concealed in the shadows and Gilda, scandalised, curious, shamefully titillated, turned her head away from one scene of wild wantonness, only to encounter another. Her own maid, Catti Jones, had given up all pretence of attending her mistress, having now apparently lost her head and her heart entirely to Dio y Diawl; and not only heart and head it seemed — nor any of it too recently, if her familiar acceptance of his far from surreptitious fondlings were any indication…

  Down the long length of the table, Lord Tregaron sprawled in a chair — half drunk, she thought disgustedly — his slight body all relaxed for once from its habitual springy tension; slender legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed: blissfully, foolishly smiling; and a woman came up behind and leaned across him so that his head lay heavily against her half-naked bosom. He lifted a languid hand, pushed aside the last remnant of concealing bodice and turned his head lazily so that his mouth was against her breast.

  Rage rose in Gilda’s heart. So had his lips caressed her and she, poor fool, thrilled with an exquisite rapture, given herself up to him in a swoon of desire. And now — to this coarse creature, publicly, oafishly, hardly knowing what he did — the same sweet, intimate, deeply possessive caress… She sat with both hands gripping the arms of her chair, willing herself to control, to remaining as though unaware, unmoved, uncaring — and suddenly was up and out of it and flying down the length of the improvised table and had her hands in the woman’s hair and was yanking her head back, dragging her off him, pushing her with wild punches at the naked shoulders to stumble before her fury down the slope of the grass, away from them… A bold, bright-eyed huzzy of a woman, ever indolently smiling; dressed habitually in a gown of scarlet, laced in tightly to show the luscious bosom above a tiny waist, the big breasts boiling over the scooped-out neckline: Gilda had marked her, hitherto felt, without much wondering about it, that she in some sort avoided her; now knew why… For the woman screamed out, ‘Let me be! He’s mine! He’s my man — has been from the beginning…’

  From the beginning… Night after night alone in the bed of cool linen and soft-heaped hay; while he… The whole crowd had risen to their feet, the men spilling the girls off their knees, loosing hold in the shadowy corners beneath the trees, coming forward to stand, roaring with laughter, in Welsh and English cheering them on. ‘Go to it, Madam fach!’ ‘Fight back at her, Blodwen…!’ ‘Dal ati!’ ‘Rho iddo hi! Tear her hair, Madam Countess, gouge her black eyes from her, let’s see those long nails of yours put to some use after all…’ And the woman fought back indeed, hands reaching out like talons to grasp at the candy-floss marigold hair and tear it out by its roots, strong brown arms flailing, calloused feet kicking out hard and hurtful at the slender white legs beneath the impeding petticoats. But the petticoats were protective also and bare feet no match for vicious little leather-shod toes and heels. One last final shove and Blodwen tumbled backwards once and for all, did a half somersault, picked herself up and ran, hugging her naked breasts, screeching of vengeance to come, into the maze of the scrub oaks beyond.

  She stood for a moment, panting, slowly gathering herself together; and turned and faced them.

  Out of the throng, a man — she never knew who — walked down the small slope, deliberately, yet reeling as he came, in drink; and gathered her to him and tossed her up like a child, caught her again, disorientated, bewildered and, dropping her feet to the ground so that she still stood rumbled against him in the ring of his arms, bent his face over hers. She struggled violently but his hot, reeking kisses were all over her; and now other men came running down the slope to join him, she felt herself pulled aside and into another pair of arms, torn away from these in turn, bounced against a huge chest, her bodice torn, vile hands fumbling at her bosom, lifting up her skirts… Voices cried out commands to stop, to release her, but they shouted back, laughing, that if she was good enough to fight with their women she was good enough to love with themselves. Women’s voices yelled, laughing encouragement or shrieking out jealous disapproval, small brown feminine hands joined in now, trying to tear her from the bear-hug embraces; buffeted, bewildered, half out of her senses, she knew that in a very little while her struggling arms would have no strength left to defend herself; that her torn clothes already left her half naked to vilest assault. Sobbing and gasping she fought, struggled, prayed for deliverance. And almost as she reached the last ounce of strength and spirit, deliverance came. A voice called out, laughter and screaming suddenly died, hands dropped from her, the drunken, struggling crowd fell back and away and there was silence.

  A voice crying out in Welsh and in English: ‘Leave her alone! Swine, fools, insolents! — don’t you know that she is reserved for me?’

  Wrapped cloak, fur cap, swaying on his feet yet yelling it out in a voice of black fury: the Fox himself, Gareth
y Cadno.

  She slept ill, a prey to nightmares. Catti Jones was banished, red-haired Jenny lay at her feet on a couch of dried bracken, improvised for the night. Lord Tregaron came to her there in the morning. He looked very pale and worn. ‘Are you recovered? I’ve been anxious about you.’

  ‘Anxious about what?’ she said, viciously. ‘My health or my beauty? For with my beauty impaired, I shan’t be so good a bargaining point for you, shall I, my lord?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, his face growing cold.

  ‘Those long hours with Y Cadno while he haggled over our ransom! When you haggled with him over your safety, don’t you rather mean? — since you can’t get the money, your wife’s body, for your freedom: your safe conduct at the price of her virtue.’

  ‘Of her what?’ he said.

  She shrieked at him, blazing. ‘My virtue, I said. Do you deny me even this? Who has ever possessed me but you who are my own husband? Isn’t that good enough? — to give myself in marriage to my husband…?’

  ‘To two husbands,’ he reminded her coolly. ‘And to neither in love. For one was too old, and the other unfortunate in his choice of brothers. Is that virtue? In cold blood to give yourself to any man: married or unmarried.’

  ‘And so you will sell me to this monster, this brigand, this filthy, cut-throat toby-man, sell me for the price of your miserable life and into the vilest of beds. But what care you for vile or not vile, who would tumble that bitch of a sloe-eyed slut with her bosom half out of her bodice for any man to fondle; only that she keeps herself for you, for my husband, and offers herself, forsooth, in the face of all the company…’ And as he, but twenty-four hours ago, had slapped her across the face, so she now hit out, violently, bruising with the gold and ruby ring against the sharp cheekbone. ‘Get out, begone from my sight! — and only as you value your safety leave that woman alone, for she’ll not share your favours with me, my dear lord, even though mine shall be given you never more.’