Court of Foxes

by Christianna Brand

  ‘He is but play-acting,’ she said, looking down at him, compassionately, ‘to put on a brave show,’ and she called out again, shrilly, forcing her voice above the din: ‘Gareth! Gareth y Cadno!’ and added in Welsh all the vile words she knew.

  He lifted his head; shouted out suddenly to the chattering women: ‘Be silent!’, turfed the two sluts roughly off his knees and stood up. ‘Who called to me then, in Welsh?’

  ‘I,’ said Gilda, into the comparative silence. ‘And in terms you could not but recognise.’

  ‘What, is it you, my Vixen?’ And he came across to the bars of his cage, but slowly, almost it seemed reluctantly, kicking the straw as he came; and put his hand through the bars and caught at hers. ‘Gilda,’ he said, half whispering, ‘you shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t; and I see that in fact there was no need for me to come. But since I am here — is there anything I can arrange for you? Whatever you name, I’ll do if I can.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, as to naming — I could name quite a lot. But not here, my love, alas! — not here.’

  ‘Very well, very well,’ she said irritably, ‘spare me the speeches; for that sort of thing you have candidates a plenty. But you’re in deep danger — and through me, I know; so that I feel obliged to help you if I can.’

  He lost his laughter. ‘But I think you can’t, my dear; nor God, nor any man — not this time.’ His strong hands grasped at the bars. ‘This place wasn’t built for escaping from.’ He saw Jake’s scared face peering up at him. ‘I told you, my would-be highwayman, didn’t I? — long ago: that all of us must end one day upon the Three-legged Tree. And so, you see, must Gareth y Cadno of the Court of Foxes.’

  ‘You shall not, you shall not!’ cried the little boy, weeping.

  ‘Ah, but I shall and you mustn’t shed tears, my boy, and make me grow weak with you. Dry your eyes; and one day not too far ahead I’ll undertake to make you the proudest boy in Christendom — to you alone will I wave, I swear it, as the cart goes by. Which reminds me, Madam Vixen, this at least you could undertake — pay I know not who, but you can doubtless discover — for a coffin and shroud to be loaded on the cart and go with me—’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ she said.

  He bowed. ‘You are all consideration.’

  ‘It was in case — in case—’

  He shrugged. ‘Accept it; this time there’s no “in case”.’

  ‘Oh, Gareth!’ She lifted her lovely eyes to his and met his own, dark and unfathomable. She whispered: ‘Under all this — unreality: are you not afraid?’

  ‘Afraid?’ He turned his head aside, looking away from her, for a moment closed his eyes, almost as though he were about to faint. But he turned back almost immediately, looking down, brilliantly smiling, into the little boy’s tear-stained face. ‘Afraid? she asks me. What, I — afraid? Shall I not have my friends about me — they’ll come up from the Crwt, you’ll see; I’m not the first of the gang to end up my days on the Nubbing Chit and they know all the tricks, how to pull on my legs so that of the manner of death itself I need have no terrors. And for the rest — a triumphal progress: how better can a man go to meet his end? Do you be there, Jake, little brother, to see me pass, with the flowers at my feet and the girls in white dancing by the cart, and bouquets from half the fine ladies of London…’ He broke off. ‘Will you send me a bouquet, Madam Vixen? Red roses: will you send me red roses? — and those I’ll carry, if you will, and let all the rest rot. Jake, see that she sends me red roses. I’ve sent them often enough to her.’

  ‘And with a message,’ said the little boy, sobbing still, trying to rub away the tears with his sleeve.

  ‘Ah, well, as to the message — she could send me no such message: though since the time would be short enough, my Vixen, perhaps you might essay it — just for that brief progress to say that you will love me till I die? I wouldn’t keep you waiting.’ And he put out his hand through the bars and caught at her own and pulled it through to him, the small, white, scented hand and kissed the palm and folded her fingers over the kiss; and ruffled the boy’s hair and turned away from them without another word.

  Half fainting, she forced her way out again, from the noise and the crowd, and the dank, foetid stench; and within her muff, her fingers were unwrapping the paper he had slipped into her hand with the kiss. Secretly, sending the child forward to find out where the carriage was waiting at the prison gate, she read what he had written there, prepared in advance apparently, for any true friend that should come.

  For God’s sake — get me laudanum!

  The days passed. She obtained laudanum, wheedled her brother Sam into taking it for her to the gaol; the experience had sickened her, mentally and physically too and her mother was insistent that, if only for the sake of the baby, she should not go again. But on the third day as she lay fretful and anxious on her bed upstairs, little Jake came pounding at the door. ‘Come, Gilda, quick! Here’s such a rabble below that my mother is having the hysterics. A woman and three villainous-looking fellows, but they’ll only say that they’re friends of her ladyship…’

  She struggled out of bed, flung on a white wrapper, all ribbons and lace, flew down to the hall. ‘Catti! Dio! Huw! My little Willie-bach!’ And she flung her arms round their necks and drew them with her into her elegant drawing-room, too excited to observe how gingerly they perched themselves on the silly little gilded chairs. Dio y Diawl, in fact, struggled up immediately to his feet again. He cut across her suddenly faltering flutterings of welcome. He said: ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Have I seen Gareth? Yes, I’ve seen him. And my brother has been to him. I was ill but my brother took him — took him laudanum.’

  ‘Laudanum?’ said Catti, her hands to her mouth.

  ‘He asked me for it. He must keep up his courage…’ Into the heavy silence she said, as though excusing him: ‘It’s a terrible way to die.’

  ‘We’ve seen a few go the same way,’ said Dio, ‘and without the aid of laudanum.’ He stared at her blindly opened his mouth to say something; cleared his throat. Huw the Harp said awkwardly: ‘We don’t know you, Madam Vixen, in this guise.’

  She sat there on the little scrolled sofa with its upholstery in heavy white silk, embossed with gold roses, the blue ribbons and lacy ruffles of the white wrapper gathered about her pregnancy. ‘Huw bach,’ she said, almost sadly, ‘I am Madam Vixen no longer.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Catti. ‘Madam Countess now, again; or Madam Doxy, which you will. But sitting very pretty, either way; while he lies in Newgate — and as ever through your fault.’

  ‘Whisht you, woman!’ said Dio, in Welsh. ‘Shut your mouth!’

  ‘How could I have known he’d come to the theatre? God knows, if I could help him—’

  ‘If you can’t, Madam Vixen fach,’ said Dio, in his own old, fond way, but sadly and heavily, ‘none can.’

  ‘I help him?’

  ‘You must help him,’ said Catti. ‘You must help us.’ She stood up suddenly, small, slender, lithely strong, in the red woollen petticoat, tight jacket and little black shawl, her keen, dark face alight with a fierce resolution. ‘You must help us to rescue him,’ she said.

  To rescue him! She stared back at them, astounded. And yet… And yet the old tingling began to set fire to her blood; sudden and fresh as a spring bursting up out of the green mountain side, a new and undreamed-of hope came bubbling through her dull acceptance of what was to be. To rescue him! To get him out of that fearful place, to save him from that fearful death! And to her, to their leader, to the Fox’s own Vixen — they turned with the old trust and faith to ask, quite simply, how it was to be done.

  She lumbered to her feet. ‘Come upstairs, come where we shall be more comfortable than amongst these foolish gim-cracks.’ And she took them to the old attic room, sent Jake running to the tavern for ale, went down to the kitchens to cajole from Mrs Brown, great plates of ham, salad and bread. ‘Now, Mother, we do but talk over the pli
ght he is in…’

  ‘You’ll lay no plans, Marigold, for getting this man released?’

  ‘For getting him released — no indeed! What would be the use of that?’

  ‘It would be very wrong. He’s what he is, a highway robber.’

  ‘As I have been myself,’ said Gilda.

  ‘Necessity drove you.’

  ‘Few take to the road from choice,’ said Gilda, dryly. ‘It’s hardly a life of luxury and ease.’

  ‘It’s a life of adventure and wicked daring,’ said Mrs Brown, shrewdly, ‘and may well take precedence with some over luxury and ease.’

  ‘Well, the life he leads at the moment is neither, and not much left of it. Give me food for my friends and leave us in peace to talk it over.’

  And she went back to them, curling up in the big, old chair; and her sickness had vanished and her eyes were shining as they had not shone for many a long day. ‘I’ve been thinking. There’s a great crush of ladies goes each day to see him. And the turnkey is old and very vile and has a villainous lust for gold…’

  They would not sleep in the house; they had friends, they said, and would find quarters elsewhere — and besides, wouldn’t Dafydd at any moment return and what would be his feelings to find them all consorted there? But they all met each day to compare the progress of their preparations. They had sent to the Cwrt for reinforcements who arrived and, cagey, grudging, curious oddly tamed and made diffident by the different surroundings in which they found themselves, also herded into the attic room and listened and learned and promised, and slouched back again into the strange world of a metropolis, to await the day when the attempt should be made.

  And the day dawned; and at ten o’clock in the morning of that day — the Earl of Tregaron came home.

  She was ready in the hall: standing, dressed in her utmost finery with Jake at her side, the carriage at the door. He saw her face blanch, the hesitation in her greeting, rapturous though it might outwardly be. ‘What’s the matter, Gilda? Where were you going?’

  Her mother had warned her how it would be. ‘This rogue, this horrible villain — what will your lover say when he finds that you scheme with your parcel of ruffians to rescue such vile trash as that? And when, by his death—’

  ‘Don’t say it, Mother!’ she had cried. ‘Don’t say it!’

  ‘All I say is that David will put a sharp end to all this. His wife, the mother of his child—’

  ‘I’m not his wife.’

  ‘In his heart you are, Gilda: and that you should go running at the bidding of this other man… Because David is quiet and kind, you think him easy-going, you think he’ll be afraid to oppose you. But he’s no milk-sop, for all he’s so sweet tempered…’

  No: he was no milk-sop. She stood in the little hall before him and literally trembled. She stammered out: ‘The Fox is taken. He lies in Newgate Gaol.’

  He said sharply: ‘Upon what charge? Highway robbery?’

  ‘Not that, no. For murder: for the shooting of your brother.’

  ‘An undertaking was given—’

  ‘This is nothing to do with your family. The law works, I suppose, without waiting for private charges to be made. I have to admit,’ she said reluctantly, ‘that there has been no sign of any interference from them.’

  He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. All the happiness had gone from his eyes, all the joy of their reunion after their longest separation since they had come to the Bijou. He stood, the three-caped travelling coat thrown back from his shoulders and looked down at her. ‘And you, Gilda — you were going to see him?’

  ‘We’ve been before,’ said Jake, joining innocently in. ‘It’s terrible there. He’s locked in a cage, and the women pester him all day as though he were some side-show—’

  ‘Go now, Jakey,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘Run out to the carriage, tell them to wait, I shall soon be there—’

  ‘Must you go?’ said David. ‘When I’m but just home. Go this afternoon; I’ll come with you and see you safe.’

  ‘I’ve promised,’ she said, feebly. The gang would be gathering at the gate of the prison, already the scheme had been set in action. ‘I’ve made — appointments…’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Some of them are up to — to see him; from Cwrt y Cadno.’

  He was silent for a long moment, looking down at her. He said at last: ‘Gilda — I know you better than you think I do. Some mischief is planned.’ And he took her by the hand and went into the little drawing-room and closed the door. ‘You’d better tell me,’ he said.

  She made no denial; but she insisted: ‘It would be better for you not to know.’

  ‘Do you think I shall prevent you?’

  ‘Will you not?’ she said, looking up doubtfully into the steady brown eyes. She reminded him: ‘Have you forgotten — that he killed your brother?’

  ‘Have you forgotten,’ he said, ‘that he is my brother?’

  So she told him; trusted him. ‘The turnkey is old and may be bribed and there’s a press of women, in and out of the cell. They’ll all be there, Dio y Diawl and Huw and Willie-bach and the rest; and Catti and Red Jenny and others of the women. All dressed as women, David — save for Dio, whose bulk and great head couldn’t be disguised, and one or two of the others who will seem but to conduct their women-folk. The plan is to cluster about the cell, having bought or over-borne the turnkey according to necessity; and then, having freed Gareth from the cell itself, to fling on to him a woman’s disguise and, making a great jostling and outcry, get him out of the prison before the cell is discovered empty.’

  He sat quietly, apart from her, on one of the small gilt chairs, his hands between his knees. ‘It sounds very simple,’ he said at last.

  ‘There’s so great a mob there; we shall be lost among the real visitors.’ She described to him the narrow corridor outside the cell.

  ‘But between that and the main gate — there must be many locks?’

  ‘They’re opened before the fashionables and everyone let through without question.’

  ‘That’s when no prisoner is known to have escaped. Once the hue and cry is raised—’

  ‘Why should it be raised?’

  ‘Some form of check must be operated, Gilda; a counting of heads if no more. And at the very first check — all remaining gates will be guarded.’

  ‘If it’s but a counting — someone may remain innocently enough, behind; and as many sheep as go in will be allowed out.’

  He shook his head, sitting staring down at his locked hands. ‘This is all foolishly hopeful. Y Cadno’s a famous criminal; he’ll be better kept than your plan assumes.’

  For the first time her high heart wavered. ‘You think we shall fail?’

  ‘The moment the cell is seen to be empty—’

  ‘We shall have seen to it that the turnkey holds his tongue.’

  ‘But the rest won’t hold theirs, Gilda. These women who flock to stare at him — what do they care for the man himself? — the sensation is all. Do you think that, having seen him escape, they’ll come quietly away? And if they do — won’t the mass departure warn the outer guard that something’s amiss?’ He said slowly: ‘What you want is someone who’ll remain in the cell and be taken for the Fox.’

  She was restless, excited, the moments were ticking away. ‘Any of the men would do it for him, but then they in their turn would be apprehended and he wouldn’t allow that. Besides…’ She threw out helpless hands. ‘Who is there that bears the smallest resemblance to him?’

  He got up quickly to his feet. ‘You have forgotten again,’ he said, ‘that he is my brother.’

  Dazed, half in tears, she went with him upstairs, selected a coat of green brocade. What to do with his fair hair was a problem but she ran to the kitchen, smeared her hands with soot, rubbed his blond head with it, crammed down a tricorne hat. ‘And your eyes aren’t dark enough and your height far too great; you must remain sitting as though in a fit of depression,
keep your hand to your brow. But the lower part of your face — yes, that would deceive any but those who knew you well.’ And she came to him and put her arms about his neck. ‘David,’ she said, ‘whether we succeed or fail — with all my heart I thank you. I know that you are doing this for me.’

  He returned her kiss gently and calmly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for you.’

  ‘Not because you think I care for him, David?’

  ‘No,’ he said, not protesting, simply accepting it.

  ‘I have loved you from the moment I saw you,’ she said. ‘I have never loved anyone else.’ And she borrowed a phrase, not giving a thought as to why it should be familiar to her. ‘I will love you till I die.’

  A man came to her as she awaited their return from the gaol, sitting huddled in the darkest corner of the tavern close by: for they had been adamant in refusing that she should go with them on the rescue attempt. A very tall man, dressed all in black but with eyes so fiercely glittering that they gave to his whole aspect a blue steeliness — who bowed and took her hand and, with a quiet air far removed from the old, gay malicious mockery, kissed it. ‘Well, Madam Vixen — so we meet again.’

  The Black Toby.

  She rose, caught at his sleeve. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Since I was banished from Carmarthenshire — by what means you know — I have returned to my old haunts.’

  ‘But here, in this ale house?’

  He suggested: ‘Upon the same errand as yourself, perhaps?’

  She stammered: ‘Y Cadno?’

  He shrugged lightly. ‘I was at the moment unemployed and — let’s say that I owed him — some return of favour.’

  ‘And so—’

  ‘Come, sit down,’ he said. He glanced down at her condition. ‘You are with child?’