Crown in Candlelight

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  There is silence. I have been talking all through my private thoughts, right up to the killing of Brabant, clad in a tabard made from a herald’s banner and mistaken for one of no account, and I must have told it well. Nick is full of gratitude. I think he wants to give me some kind of reward.

  ‘You must be lonesome without the boy,’ he says, and, God curse him, closes one filthy eye. I clasp my hands behind me or I should be through the bars choking him and spoiling everything. I say calmly: ‘I was never one for boys,’ and here’s the time and moment, fallen into place.

  ‘A woman, though,’ I say. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  Y diafol! The last time … my darling, you were so impassioned, you swept me away, and the child came forth before its time … oh, Christ! was it my fault? Forgive me, my little Owen. It will all be put right.

  ‘Alison is the cleanest,’ Nick is saying.

  ‘I haven’t much money left,’ I say. ‘I gave most of it to the boy, to make his way in the world, alone he is now.’

  He laughs. ‘She’s cheap.’ And he goes to fetch her, while I sit down, completely awed by luck. Alison was the one I had planned for.

  She entered full of a trembling curiosity. On London Bridge there was a foreign alchemist’s shop, full of strange charms and amulets, where men worked with the Philosopher’s Stone, trying to change base metal into gold. Peeping into that shop she’d had the same feelings as now, entering Meredyth’s cell. She was a little afraid. Once she had been sent to one of the private cells on the eve of the occupant’s execution. The man had nearly killed her. She had looked into Meredyth’s eyes before, studying their extraordinary colour and expression as a fisherman gauges the sea, the different currents and changes, sometimes full, sometimes grievously barren. The eyes of the condemned man had been like that. She had never had much to say to Meredyth, had merely looked and gone away, combing her matted blonde hair with her fingers as she did now and Nickson locked her in with him.

  She was seventeen. Her name was not Alison at all, but Annetje, which none could be troubled to pronounce. She had come to England with an elderly wool merchant who had admired her blonde virginity on the quay at Bruges. He lived with his sister in a mansion near Temple Bar. There she had spent two happy years, sharing the merchant’s soft bed. Within ten minutes of his abrupt demise she had been thrown out into the street by the sister. The teeming maw of London had swallowed her and she had been arrested for soliciting in Candlewick Street. She knew men, but the like of this one she did not know.

  He drew her to him, calling her an endearment in a strange tongue. His hands were cold, yet warmth wrapped her round as she stood on dirty bare feet bloody with vermin-bites, chapped from the chill. She looked up at him uncertainly in the torchlight from the passage. His eyes were wild, secret on hers, with a transient veil of exultation replacing earlier pain. She saw again how clean he had endeavoured to keep himself and his dwelling. He led her to the corner of the cell where there was straw. The corner was almost out of sight. Nickson watched them lie down. Then out of an uncharacteristic sense of respect that did him credit, he removed one of the torches from the wall and went away, leaving them the privacy of gloom.

  They lay very still. She put her arms round him. He was completely unaroused. He made no attempt to take her. Fear sprang; she had been beaten before for men’s impotence. She struggled. He lay on her lightly, but she couldn’t move. Lie quiet, he whispered. Don’t be afraid. Together they listened to the jail-noises; the screams of someone fighting, a child wailing, a man coughing up his lungs. Nickson’s steps and the tiny music of his keys, diminishing. The man’s tense slender weight left her. He lay propped on his elbow. She could see his eyes, faint mysterious gleams. He murmured: ‘He’s gone!’

  ‘Back to the fire!’ she whispered. ‘Back to his sty!’

  ‘You’re French? No?’

  ‘Flemish,’ she nodded, and shivered.

  ‘That’s good. I’m against the English now.’

  ‘So am I,’ she said. ‘Now.’

  She smelled bad, sickly with hopelessness. Her feet touched his ankles like shards of ice. You’re cold, he said, and drew her close, rubbing her feet with his own. Not now, she said, after a moment. It’s the first time I’ve been warm this winter. The lovely warmth of him poured into her, making her sleepy. He wasn’t going to hurt her. Relief reminded her of why she was here and she moved her hands deftly down his body. He caught them and held them against his chest. Lice, brought forth by the warmth, moved to torment them both. The madman down the passage let out a terrible yell.

  ‘Once,’ she found herself saying, ‘I lived in a beautiful house, with someone who loved me and cared for me.’ He laughed, an awful bitter laugh. It frightened her again. Then he said: ‘So did I, cariad, so did I,’ and patted her, and her fear fled. He scratched himself and cursed the lice, and she did likewise, and they laughed, friends in trouble, and he said: ‘What would you like?’

  ‘I?’

  ‘You’re hungry? I’ve a little food.’

  ‘I’d like to wash my feet,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘Then you shall.’ He rose, moving confidently through the semi darkness. She heard him pouring water and tearing cloth, then saw him as a vague dark shape, kneeling.

  ‘I’ll be your valet.’ She felt him gently laving her feet with the wet cloth. ‘I’m good with feet.’ No, she said faintly. ‘The King does it for the paupers,’ he said. She winced as the cloth touched a rat-bite. Poor child, he thought. A very faint light fell on the foot he held. And suddenly it was Cathryn’s foot, Cathryn stepping from the chariot at Leicester, holding out her innocent unknowing foot for him to shoe long ago; Cathryn’s foot that he had spent the whole of one hour kissing and holding against his face in the firelight not so long ago … not now, he thought. I haven’t wept for months. Nickson may come back at any minute and take this girl from me. But Alison, feeling kindness, remembering warmth, would already have done more for him than he was about to ask.

  When he had dried her feet she took the cloth and washed her face and lifted her dress and washed her body. Then, refreshed but damp, she lay down again. She did not offer herself to him again, but for her own comfort pressed close, feeling his rapid, listening breath, and the tumult of his mind. She whispered: ‘And you? What would you like?’

  He bent very close and whispered:

  ‘I must escape. But I need your help.’ Then, softly: ‘Y diafol!’ as shuffling steps and a light began along the passage. He rolled on top of her again. Instinct made her clasp him and moan. Nickson gave a hoarse guffaw.

  ‘Go to it!’ he said. ‘And a good night to you!’

  The light died, the steps faded. They drew apart, hearts pounding. Tell me, tell me quickly what you want, she whispered. But hold me while you tell.

  ‘There’s danger in it. I must have a diversion, to draw off the other jailers. In battle, while the main strategem goes forward, there must be a flank attack to diffuse the adversary. You understand?’

  ‘Tell me what I have to do.’

  He told her. Then he said: ‘I wish to God I could remember what the main jail looks like. We’ll need to go through there like hares,’ and she described the structure of the awful room and the gatehouse and he fixed it in his mind, holding her close, while she wished for that day on the Bruges quay back again, and Meredyth coming ashore instead of the wool-merchant …

  You’ll need dry straw, he said, and she answered: a fresh bale comes in next week. Conserve some, he said. But the time and day are most important. Three weeks from tonight. The moment you hear us coming through, begin. I’ll give you enough money to bail you and perhaps get you back to Flanders and she said tearfully: ‘I want no money. How do you say I love you, in your language?’

  ‘R’wyn dy garu di,’ he answered absently, and she repeated it, her accent almost perfect, sad that he did not notice or understand. She fell into a doze. He woke her asking:

  ‘What became of your
protector, the one with the fine house?’ and she told him of the old man’s death and her own subsequent disgrace. He said: ‘Tell me how he died. Was he sick for long?’

  ‘Barely a week. He complained of his chest and his left arm. He held his heart.’

  ‘Gasping, was he? How soon was it after he held his heart?’

  ‘Yes, gasping, groaning. About an hour.’

  ‘Thank you. Sleep now, cariad. Diolch i Dduw. Thank God.’

  He slept. Stealthily she pressed her head against his neck and wrapped her feet round his ankles and held him close. R’wy’n dy garu di, Master Meredyth. She was awakened by a soft muttering. She leaned to catch his dreaming words.

  ‘… the priest. The priest.’ He was grinding his teeth.

  ‘You want a priest?’ He was instantly alert.

  ‘It must be a certain priest. None other will do.’

  ‘I know of a priest,’ Alison said. ‘Someone came in tonight, a thief who’s been working close to Newgate. There’s a priest who comes to the gates every night just before Searching Time. It’s a special act of intercession, to pray for all captives.’

  He sat up violently in the rustling straw. ‘Describe him!’ She told him what the new inmate had said. The priest had spoken to him just before he was arrested, telling him to mend his ways. A very thin priest, swift, like an arrow.

  Meredyth bent and kissed her. She wept, for all the lost hours and kisses such as these, and very soon Nickson came to take her away.

  Only three more days left. Nick and I are both nearly out of our minds. I through this fierce hidden excitement and he at sight of my mortal sickness which means the loss of his bedtime story.

  I fell sick four days ago, in the middle of the old tale about the Lombards and my leg ripped open by a dirty poignard, and Nick saying, in his usual vein—did it hurt?— and I answering, no, it was the sweetest pleasure, try it some time, Nick, my irony wasted on him. Then suddenly I clawed at my chest. I know I turned pale; I felt cold sweat on my face. He saw it; he started dancing about not so much at my seizure but at fear of being cheated of the tale’s ending. I took to my bed then. It’s a wide plank suspended by chains from the wall. I began to groan. I remembered how John Fletcher rolled his eyes in the tent at Harfleur, crying something about Hywelis having wished him to death … I rolled my eyes. Soon I crawled over to the bars so Nick could see my agony.

  It’s weird, this feigning. I know that if it went too far it would take hold, Death misliking to be mocked. I’m like the dragon-lizards men bring back from the East; when I choose I can become any shape, any colour. It has to be inspired by wanting something badly enough. As in that old dance, which ended in her lap. Her soft lap. She often calls me a sorcerer, in play. It was my sorcery, she says, that willed her on to the gallery that night. If so, it’s my inheritance from the Lord, Glyn Dwr.

  My sorcerer’s luck is holding. Alison managed to get through to see me yesterday. I was alarmed and told her to go away, but she brought me staggering news. The priest has been into the main jail. Some poor Christian wretch did die the other night and was shriven. They only had to open the main gate and there was Holy Church, ready and waiting, and now he has an entrée to Newgate! Bless you, Father. You’ll be rewarded next week, both for your work this coming Friday and for something else. When you marry me to Cathryn, my soul.

  I’ve been up from bed again to tell Nick where the pain is. Clever Alison told him: ‘I saw someone die just like that!’

  God protect Alison from being harmed in the melée. I think of her as a dear daughter, and wish her well. I had a daughter once, conceived in that beautiful sun-silken cove, and too beautiful to stay long in this rotten old world … tomorrow I’ll lie down for the last time. My resurrection shall be on Friday. Annwyl Crist! On Friday my love and I will be together again.

  Bermondsey is a fortress. I remember now; she mentioned the fact—when we were trying to think of somewhere safe to send the boys. There will be menservants. Force will be needed, force, to be provided by Huw. To think I ever thought him lackwit. Just see how well he’s instructed the priest. Everything still hangs on him.

  I trust there won’t be too much violence at Bermondsey; I don’t want Cathryn upset. I want her alone with me, somewhere quiet, over the border, safe, in some hidden hostel or a kinsman’s house. I want to say many things to her.

  I’ve prayed. To Christ, to Almighty God, to the Virgin Mother. But I’ve also prayed to the old ones, Drwynwen the White One, the love-goddess of Anglesey. And also Aerfen, the river-goddess. The fighter. It’s damp enough in this place for Aerfen to feel at home. Greedy, faithful Aerfen needs a human sacrifice. Perhaps she will waive her need for once. I wonder if Huw met up with Hywelis, that is, providing she still lives. But then I would always know if Hywelis had died, and that’s a mystery I’ve never been able to fathom.

  I’ve decided we shall leave the boys at Barking for the time being. I am not so worried about them. It’s a good place, and little Owen too should be safe at Westminster, unless Suffolk has taken him to Barking too, which is likely. My little girl, my love, comes first.

  Nick has offered me a doctor. I told him I had scant faith in doctors, that from all accounts a doctor hastened King Henry’s death at Vincennes. Then Nick wanted to hear about Vincennes, and the river-journey (which was mostly hearsay to me anyway), so I started, lovely and poetic, and had another seizure at the best part, and fell gasping to the floor. Nick is demented. He must love me very much. Soon he will see what love can do.

  Now it’s night. I can rest. I am going to indulge my mind, and think of her, and of our next embrace. It’s like going to Hertford with the harps; the very first time I set foot in that beloved place. The dream is near.

  Where shall I begin, fy merch fach, my love, my own, my dear delight? At your toes? No—too soon after poor Alison’s raw feet … I’ll start at your hair. In the centre of your brow where the parting begins the skin is whitest and shines like a star. I’ve spread your hair out, in its great darkness, rippling with a few prisms of copper and blue in fire or sun or candlelight. One or two tendrils lie across your neck and breast. I’m going too fast. You pluck your brows very fine. Perfect high crescents, they give you an imperious look at times. The little scar above your left ear, that’s where you fell down the stairs at Poissy and cut your temple on a holywater stoup. Dame Alphonse cried for an hour because you’d hurt yourself, and because Belle would be furious. Your beautiful elegant nose. There! I’ve kissed it, once more. Your long glossy eyes, I’ve seen them filled with tears, loving you, I’ve opened my eyes and seen the snow melting when we reach the peak of the mountain. Oh, Cathryn, you’re fire and silk … I didn’t mean my thoughts to go this far. I only meant to look.

  I can taste the smile on your long shining lips. When you walk away and look back once with your long neck arched and that smile and the sad, gleaming, wanton eye, it turns my heart over. And nothing can keep me from you, not locked doors, nor bars, nor chains. Your eyes, more beautiful than the thrice-mewed hawk, your breasts whiter than the bog-cotton where it grows by the river … my Olwen. My Cathryn. I love you. Be patient. Just a little longer. The dream is near.

  Put your arms round me. Your left arm round my waist, your right arm round my neck. My right hand in your hair, my left hand pressing you to me low where your back arches—they say that’s the true sign of a loving woman, that deep arch in the back. I should know. Now let me kiss you. Very slowly, I’ll melt open your lips, then take your whole mouth within my own. All kiss now, we are. You love to be kissed. I love kissing. My face must be very pale. Good. If Nickson looks in he’ll think me worse. We hang on this kiss, it makes us shake like wind-shocked trees. Time is slowing down. Where’s that place on your neck … I think I’ve made a permanent imprint there, like a strawberry. And the place just below your right breast, where your keen ribs begin. Down, and down, you’re so sweet all over, like the taste of the sea in the cove. Don’t tremble so, my darling. It�
�s only foolish old Meredyth, your renegade jailbird lover, a common felon. No! It’s Owen ap Meredyth ap Tydier, Esquire, your tried and chosen mate. Your husband. Am byth, Cathryn. Toujours, Owen.

  I can see you clearly. Cathryn, you’re here! I’ve brought you into this cell, my dear dear child, my beloved wife. Soul of my bliss. Cariad. I love you. Soon, now. Soon.

  My death will be well-timed, for I’m running out of tales. When you and I are safe in Glyn Dwr country I will send a letter to Glewlwyd Mighty-Grasp, telling him he has missed the best story of all.

  God keep you, dearest dream, until we are in each other’s arms, when we shall have need neither of gods nor men.

  Oh, my Cathryn.

  The seabird was flying east, seeking a harbour inland from the storms blowing up off Bristol; the pattern of its great white wings was leisured and confident. It dipped to rest and feed at the Wye and the Severn, then flew steadily on towards London’s great river. The keen wind spurred and deflected its flight; at one time it converged with and followed the small company riding south-east through the late January day. There were about a score of men, with spare horses galloping alongside on leading reins. It was a hard, quiet, dedicated ride. The hoofbeats were softened by the thin powdery snow. The only other sounds were the chinking bridles, the creak of leather and the occasional terse words that passed between the men. They had left behind the worst of the weather, where snow was piled like cumulus on the mountains of Powys, on the Berwyn range and the giant shape of Mynydd y Cemais. Faces were muffled to the eyes in wool; the men wore light half-armour and each carried his chosen weapon. Some of them were too young to remember the old days of Glyn Dwr’s rebellion but a race memory roared within them and they rode proudly, glad of the chance to strike one tiny token blow against the Saeson. Although they expected no fighting, even those who had never seen the man towards whom they rode were willing to die for him, because they shared his blood. These were the tough mountain men of Powysland, men who could weep for a song yet kill with one expert thrust, coax silver from the harp yet chop and hack and ambush if necessary before the last note had faded. These were the ones of rebel strain, the poets, the lovers, the killers. Softly and swiftly they rode, coming like a wolf-pack over the border and southwards on to London. Huw rode in the forefront, his eyes grim and aching above his muffler.