Crown in Candlelight

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  The sky was clear, pale blue in places; the sun declining as they entered the snow-laced forests skirting the city. The leader bared his face and smiled, his teeth white among his black beard and moustaches. We’re in good time, he said to Huw. You’re a fine guide, boy. And Huw said, shivering: ‘We are too early!’

  ‘Better early than late.’ The company reined in within the heart of the forest. Steam rose from the horses. Will it snow? someone asked, and the swarthy man, Theodor, squinted up to where the sun was firing the whitened treetops and a cold little star had appeared. No, it will be fine, he said. There’s the thaw coming. Clumps of melted snow slid from the branches and dropped softly around them in the clearing where they waited.

  ‘That was a great performance he gave, that night at Windsor,’ said Howell ap Llewellyn, shaking damp from his beard. ‘Duw! It’s a crime …’ None answered. There was no answer.

  At that moment the seabird joined them, its wings waving languidly overhead, tired near the end of its long flight. One of the younger men, unable to resist so sure a target, fitted a bolt into the springald he carried. He fired straight and true into the pale sky silver with reflections of sun and snow. The bird’s body was pierced clean. Its wings folded gracefully and it plummeted through the branches, bringing down a small avalanche and falling into a snowdrift. Its own weight entombed it. White within white, invisible in death. From a distance a bell began to sound for Vespers.

  ‘It’s time,’ said the leader. He leaned and clapped Huw on the shoulder. ‘Take us to him.’

  They rode on, cloaked, weapons hidden, rode bunched together like all the other companies of merchants and travellers making their way home into the city. They came to Newgate and waited, dispersing a little to ride unobtrusively up and down, in and out of the gathering shadows, while the snowlight gleamed in their eyes and the cold little star was joined by another and another, and the white roofs blushed under the dying sun.

  Within the jail, Nickson had thrown caution away, and had locked himself in with his charge. He sat on the side of Owen’s plank bed. The Welshman’s lips were blue, his face like ash. A terrible groan made Nickson leap up. He found himself muttering: ‘Don’t die, for Jesus’ sake, don’t die. You cannot die. You must stay here for ever and let me drink your life, your experiences. You are all I am not, all I ever wanted to be …’ The Welshman was clawing at his heart, his eyes tightly shut. Nickson looked round wildly. In his frenzy he had neglected to fasten the door connecting the passage and the main jail. Alison was hanging about. Nickson shouted at her. She pouted and wandered off to stand beneath the torchlight at the entrance to the main jail.

  Owen’s eyes opened, dull where they had been so bright. He began to gasp, long intakes of tortured breath. He was holding his left arm. He said weakly: ‘Nick. Ah, Nick.’

  ‘Master Meredyth! For Christ’s sake! What is it?’

  ‘Help me, Nick. I’m dying.’

  ‘No, no!’ Nickson cried. ‘You’ll be well. Just lie quiet.’

  ‘Nick,’ he said through his teeth. ‘We’ve been friends …’

  ‘I’ll get a doctor.’ The keeper started for the door. A terrible groan halted him midway.

  ‘For the love of God! I must have a priest! I’ve led an evil life … killed men, lied, I’ve lain with women. A priest …’

  ‘I’ll get one.’ Nickson fumbled with keys, their great weight dragged at his belt. He locked the cell behind him and ran through into the main jail where the prisoners were sitting or lying in apathy and the jailers were stoning the rats. Alison was making her bed, spreading straw about, he nearly tripped over her as he ran, rushing through the gatehouse and unlocking the outer door. There, as usual, stood the priest, hands folded, head as usual bowed in prayer. Near him stood the Welshman’s servant.

  ‘Father!’ Nickson seized the priest’s bony arm, drawing him inside. Huw slipped in beside them, and the keeper said: ‘Oh, you’re here … your master’s sick. For God’s sake, come … do what you can.’

  They went through to where Owen lay. Nickson locked all four of them inside the cell. Huw fell on his knees beside the bed. The priest took out his crucifix. Owen looked deep into Huw’s eyes. They were full of tears. Annwyl Crist! he thought. Something’s gone amiss. The priest bent over him, masking his face from the jailer. Owen frowned savagely at Huw. He whispered, barely framing the words: ‘What’s wrong?’

  Tears ran down Huw’s face. Owen thought: how tired he looks, but shaped his lips again almost in silence, saying: ‘Are they here?’ and Huw whispered incoherently: ‘All. I saw the witchwoman … her fox bit me!’

  Praise God. He got to Glyndyfrdwy. Nickson was shuffling nearer. Owen began to groan and mutter at the priest, watching the cadaverous face, the knowing eyes. The priest said sharply to Huw and the jailer: ‘Stand back! I must hear his confession!’ and began praying. He raised the crucifix, a blessing, a signal, and began another rapid salvo of prayer. Owen expelled every ounce of breath from his lungs and lay still.

  The priest touched him on the forehead and turned to face the others. ‘This man is dead,’ he said soberly. ‘For the love of God, open the door of this vile place to give his spirit passage!’

  Nickson turned the key and flung the cell door wide. Then he took the few steps to where Owen lay. The eyes were half open. He could see a thread of white, a glimpse of pupil. You died, he thought disgustedly. How dare you die! He bent closer with a vague idea of trying to fathom what had been so entrancing about that face, and so greedy for more stories that he would have torn the dead lips open to get at them … and later, much later, explaining himself away to the Constable, the justiciars, and to Gloucester’s henchmen, he found himself saying: ‘Sirs, he was dead! I saw him dead! I swear it!’ He had never seen anything, bird or beast or man, move so fast. Faster than a whip uncoiling, Owen came up off the bed and had him by the throat, crying: ‘Huw! the keys!’

  Huw dived for the belt, but the keys were latched tight on to the ring. Nickson kicked and lashed out, catching Huw a hard blow on the side of the head. Owen felt his hands losing their grip, thought: Duw! he’s stronger than I dreamed, prison has weakened me, and hung desperately on the jailer’s throat, with his two broken fingers hooked behind the man’s ear, hearing the priest cry: ‘Hurry!’ as he stood in the open doorway of the cell. Nickson’s face was turning claret, but still he struggled and kicked and struck, twisting, dragging Owen down on to the bed, rolling on him, then being rolled on. The bed collapsed; they fell to the floor with the keys crushed beneath the two flailing bodies and Huw tearing at the jailer’s belt, cursing, and the priest hissing: ‘Be swift!’ and Alison waiting at the entrance to the passage, listening and trembling and afraid. Owen felt the strength leaving his hands. The jailer spat in his face, temporarily blinding him. Then suddenly he felt all resistance cease and saw Huw’s knife-hilt protruding from Nickson’s side and the keys in the boy’s hand. You’ve killed him, bach. A sacrifice. Aerfen has had her blood-gift.

  The priest rushed over and hauled Owen upright, thrusting Huw before him to the door. They ran from the cell together, not looking back to see Nickson crawl upright and hold his wound in utter disbelief. As they raced along the passage, Alison set the jail on fire.

  Over the days she had hoarded new straw. Her face was scratched bloody over battles for its possession. She had stolen chips of pitch from the torches and fat from the rushlights. She had torn up her ragged underclothes and mixed them with the straw. And all day she had meandered up and down the jail wall on the dry side, away from the drain, strewing the mixture, adding little billets of wood. The other inmates had laughed at her. Another victim of jail-madness. She had ignored them, carrying on with her privileged task. R’wy’n dy garu di, Master Meredyth. And now, leaping high, she seized a torch from its sconce and threw it at her carefully prepared trail of combustion. The straw exploded and a wall of flame blossomed the length of the jail. Panic erupted. Women screamed like slaughtered pigs, people ran fr
om the blazing area knocking one another down, while the rats came out from the burning straw with their fur on fire, spreading trails of flame as they dived for the safety of the drain. The jailers, half-blinded and choking, rushed to douse the fire. Owen and Huw and the priest came through along the burning side; sparks and red-hot wisps scorched their clothing. They saw Alison, standing quite still, smiling against the already dying flames. They ran through the gatehouse and unlocked the doors and they were out. Not only free of Newgate but of the City itself. The sun was nearly down and quite soon the gates of London would be closing.

  The cold air hit Owen like strong drink, making him falter dizzily for a moment before running on. The starlight and sunset blazed in his eyes, restoring instantly all their old beauty and brilliance. Still running, with the priest going like a deerhound beside them, he turned and seized Huw by the hair and gave him a smacking kiss on the mouth. Then he laughed, running, and from every corner of the network of little streets and from the entrances of alleys and courts and tavern-yards and from the road to freedom and the open fields, the strong shadows came hurrying to greet. him, some riding, some leading horses; the men of Wales, bloodkinsmen all, some unknown until now, some known from childhood, those whose fathers had grown in wildness under the law of the Lord, Glyn Dwr. His cousins, the fighting bards, Howell ap Llewellyn and John ap Meredyth reached him first, clutching him in their arms, kissing him, clouting his back with great blows that drove out his breath, talking wildly, crowing with laughter. Then Rhys and Gruffydd, Llywd and Hywel and Gwylym and the Theodor cousins from Penmynydd who had scarcely set foot in England the whole of their lives … all of them, crowding him into their embrace, ruffling his hair, exclaiming over his thinness in the snow-blue shadows and starlight and setting sun. They had a cloak of thick Welsh wool for him, for he had on only his doublet and hose, and their love and loyalty and shared triumph had set him shivering and near to tears.

  And the beloved tongue fell sweetly on his ears once more, the full vowels and guttural consonants, each syllable a song, rippling with laughter and pride and loving mockery.

  ‘We’ve come to spring you, Owen, boy!’

  ‘Ah, well met, well met, my little one!’

  ‘But you didn’t need us, did you? Not with this villain!’ and Gwyl ap Vychan smote the priest such a clout on his back that his thin frame almost doubled, and he felt wildly to see that his purse was intact.

  ‘Nor with this one! Ah, God! there’s blood on you, boy!’ … said John ap Meredyth with terrible pride as he looked at Huw. And Owen embraced Huw again, feeling more tears on the boy’s face, saying: ‘Don’t cry, you fool! it’s over …’ and snatched up the reins of the strong fresh horses that had been brought for them. The priest had already mounted his; there seemed a lot of noise being made so near to Newgate and his skeleton’s face was worried. The leaders were of like mind. The blackbearded Theodor raised his hand. Some of the excitement was tempered.

  ‘Time we were away!’ They mounted, the horses’ whirling hooves churned silently in the melting snow; Howell ap Llewellyn’s horse bumped up against Owen’s mount. Hywelis wished us well, he said. She awaits our coming …

  The horses sprang forward. The leaders began to set a fast pace towards the meadows of Smithfield and the outer ward of Farringdon. The company rode close, cloaks lifting to reveal weapons glinting in the snow-bright evening. The sky was turning a delicate lilac, more stars were out. Faster they rode, past cottages, with their little plumes of smoke, away from London. The horses’ hooves were a mere ghostbeat on the soft ground. Owen rode in the middle of the pack. He was dazed and disorientated after the long months without sky or air. They had travelled half a mile before realization thrust at him. He forced his mount close to the leaders, hauling on the reins so that the whole company jostled to a cursing halt behind him.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he cried. ‘This isn’t the way!’

  ‘It’s the way home, boy,’ said Theodor.

  Owen seized the leader’s bridle. ‘Devil damn! Where are we going? We must go back! Back, before they close the gates! through Ludgate and past St Paul’s and over London Bridge!’ He wrenched the horse’s head round, it screamed and reared. ‘South! Over the river! Or we shall be too late!’

  They pressed about him: Howell ap Llewellyn and John ap Meredyth were closest, their faces stark and silent.

  ‘Why in Hell did you think I sent for you all?’ he cried. Most of the men were quiet. Yet a little chill whisper arose.

  ‘South!’ Owen shouted, as if at deaf madmen. ‘To fetch my little girl away! Cathryn! To burn down bloody Bermondsey!’

  The horses stood quietly in the starry snow. In the distance St Paul’s great voice sounded. John ap Meredyth began to speak. His words faltered and faded away.

  ‘Oh, sweet God. Sweet Christ. Owen.’

  He turned to Huw and said: ‘Damn you, boy. Didn’t you tell him?’ Huw bent his head, weeping.

  Howell ap Llewellyn was the bravest. He reached out and took Owen’s hand, crushing it as if the pain might somehow shield him from the words.

  ‘Queen Cathryn died over a year ago, Owen. All your sons are safe and well. But your little girl is dead.’

  Owen withdrew his hand. He rode forward apart from them all. He looked up at the sky. There was one star, most beautiful and bright; it grew larger and longer until it spread itself across his sight in a blazing blur of silver, invading his mind so that for a time nothing else could enter. Only the soft voices of his friends, and the feel of their arms about him as they rode close to steady him in the saddle. Then the star shrank again, becoming for ever distant in the amethyst sky, as he remembered the tolling bell in the winter’s night more than a year ago.

  And he knew that the dance was over and the dream was done.

  He looked back. He said: ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In St Paul’s. Owen …’

  Not their entreaties, nor their curses, nor even their weapons could hold him. Theodor attempted to detain him with some force, but saw his eyes and was afraid for the first time in twenty years. Owen turned his horse towards London. The priest, scarcely comprehending, looked at him; the eyes looked back, communicating their dreadful wound. Shrive me, priest. This man is dead. He turned from them all and rode back through the closing gates of the City towards the source of the tolling bell.

  He walked through the great dark doors of St Paul’s: He made no attempt to claim Sanctuary by touching the High Altar. He did not have to seek the place where she was; it drew him unerringly into a side aisle, quiet and almost hidden from view. The tomb looked very white against the other aged monuments. It was low and flat and plain; unembellished save for the arms cut into the top and a Latin frieze denoting whose mother and widow she once was. No flowers, no birds, no words or tokens of what had been. Nothing.

  And across this nothingness he laid himself down. He let its bitter chill embrace him. Some time during the night priests and monks, unheard, unseen and unaware, moved softly to the High Altar with prayers and candlelight.

  Her tomb bore no effigy. He became her effigy. And there he stayed until morning, when he was discovered by those who came to take him unresisting back to Newgate.

  Epilogue

  Pembroke Castle, 1461

  He looks so fine, so fair, in his red doublet. It is new velvet with a high collar. He let me help him put it on. I saw where his blood will soak almost invisibly into the red. He is mine, and has always been mine, and was never mine. I know the date and time and manner of his death. I have seen it in all its tragic nobility. I have heard his last words upon this earth. He will be brave. Will I? I have not told him.

  He looks more than ever like the Lord these days, except that he is clean-shaven. His face is very gaunt, a fine falcon’s face, like the Lord’s, and he is about the same age as Glyn Dwr when he died. His eyes are still very beautiful. This past month the last of their bitterness seems strangely to have departed. He holds himself very straigh
t, and he is pleased to be going again to the fighting. He has outlived most of his enemies and friends, and all but one of the three sons, Jasper.

  Golden Edmund is dead these past five years, slain fighting near Carmarthen against the Yorkists, at the age of twenty-six. In time he will be re-interred before the High Altar of Dewi Sant. His purpose was accomplished. Although Edmund never saw his son, he, Henry, is now the one. The seed is sown. The line is pure. The dynasty is founded. Henry is five years old. His mother is Margaret Beaufort, great-niece of the Cardinal. She was fourteen when she bore Henry. Neither comely nor gracious, she is aware of her part in the whole pattern of good and evil and passion and war. Edmund was the one. Edmund was the child got in anger after the valets at Windsor had degraded Owen for his liaison with the Queen-Dowager. The bloody anger ran in Edmund, and now in his son, Henry. Wales will rule England. But first, there must be blood and sacrifice again. The foes who now rage are the enemies of the dynasty to come. It is war à l’outrance. York against Lancaster. Worse even than the French wars were.

  All the black one’s efforts were in vain. The force beyond the spheres, known to my own tormented spirit, the cone of power raised by our mystic heritage, finally saw her damned and disgraced. She was discovered about to administer poison to the King—to ‘Little Harry’. The ensuing search was thorough—the black books, the corpses of animals, the secrets of herbal and alchemy—all was revealed, and Eleanor was stripped half-naked and flogged through the streets of London as a witch. And seven years ago she died, an outcast, and blackness had her.